Self-driving cars, or more broadly, autonomous vehicles (AVs) are really cool. I’m excited to see them become a reality. Nevertheless, there is a lotSelf-driving cars, or more broadly, autonomous vehicles (AVs) are really cool. I’m excited to see them become a reality. Nevertheless, there is a lot of hype around this topic. It seems like most of what I read about the subject comes from someone connected to the tech industry or the auto industry (or both), and that always makes me suspicious. No One at the Wheel: Driverless Cars and the Road of the Future is a tonic to that. This eARC was provided by NetGalley and the publisher in exchange for a review, and here it is: Samuel I. Schwartz seems like a smart dude who gets it.

The main draw of this book, for me, is hands down simply this: it is written by a transportation engineer, not an autonomous vehicle evangelist. Schwartz knows what he’s talking about, but he knows it from the perspective of pavement and traffic flow, not AI algorithms or engine efficiency tweaks. He is enthusiastic about the benefits of AVs, and he discusses those at length—but he also has a lot of questions and apprehension, which he lays out in a systematic and thoughtful way as well. In short, No One at the Wheel is a nuanced look at what the future of traffic might be like in a society that uses AVs.

Schwartz opens with a history lesson. I was fascinated by this, and this is why I love reading non-fiction. We are so used to “the way things are” that it’s easy to forget that there was always a transitional period. There was a time when automobiles were new, and people needed radio jingles to be educated not to jaywalk and get hit by a car … wow. More importantly, Schwartz points out how many early traffic laws (and regulations concerning pedestrians) ended up shaped by the automotive industry lobby. Also, he notes that interest in self-driving vehicles started almost as soon as we had automotive vehicles in general.

After the history lesson, Schwartz examines why AVs might be desirable. He notes the mobility and accessibility benefits. As a transportation engineer, though, his main question concerns whether AVs will improve traffic flow, reduce congestion, and generally be better for roads. The evangelists want the answer to be a resounding yes, but Schwartz demonstrates that this is actually a difficult question to answer. For example, AVs should be better drivers, so they can drive in more tightly confined lanes (narrower roads are a win), more closely together—thereby reducing congestion, right? Except that maybe more people will use AVs, which could increase congestion and road deterioration. Or maybe AVs will be so busy stopping and starting for pedestrians who, knowing the AV has to stop for them, step into the middle of the road that the AVs will actually be slower than a human-driven vehicle. So many possibilities to consider.

Schwartz also gets into the ethical ramifications of AVs and collisions, etc. He covers the Trolley Problem. Whatever. That stuff isn’t as interesting to me now—it’s interesting in general, but it’s not what I’m for; I’ve read it before.

The book really picks up whenever Schwartz considers how AVs affect city planning. Drawing again on history, he examines how we went from cities with no cars to cities built around cars and where we might go in the future. I loved his commentary on the differences between cities with “walkable” downtowns and cities without. For example, he points out that while people with cars tend to spend more per visit, pedestrians and cyclists tend to go to more stores because parking is less of an issue. This totally resonates with me: although I have a vehicle, I like to walk to the downtown as much as possible, because I hate finding parking. I’d rather walk down there and walk to each store, even if it takes a little more effort. Except now, it’s winter, so … yeah, no.

Many books in this vein are also relentlessly focused on the United States to the point of tunnel vision. This shouldn’t be notable, but it is: No One at the Wheel takes a more global perspective. Schwartz discusses American traffic, but he also talks about European, Australian, Indian, etc. traffic. He’s very careful to point out that AVs are not going to be adopted at the same pace or in the same way all over the world, and different jurisdictions with different cultures and histories are going to react differently. I appreciate this attention to detail from an American book by an American author.

At the end of the day, Schwartz’s thesis and biases are fairly clear. It isn’t so much about being pro- or anti-AV. Rather, he wants good transportation options for people. He wants AVs to be part of a larger, more holistic traffic strategy, rather than the be-all, end-all strategy, or something thought of as distinct or disjoint from the rest of traffic. Every example he brings up, every anecdote he shares from his experiences as an engineer and traffic commissioner, every point he makes, drives this home (pun intended): if we are to make the most of what AVs can do for us, we must consider how we can use AVs to make transit overall accessible, mobile, and affordable, instead of just letting AVs “happen” to us.

No One at the Wheel is an interesting, dynamic, thoughtful, and compassionate book by someone who knows what they’re talking about. It took my casual interest in autonomous vehicles and educated me, gave me lots to think about, and in some cases actually caused me to rethink a few of my opinions (I have largely been very pro-AV, but Schwartz has helped explain some of the possible negative side-effects of AVs that until now I kind of brushed aside). If this is a topic that you want to learn more about, then this book will help you achieve that goal.

The Quantum Labyrinth: How Richard Feynman and John Wheeler Revolutionized Time and Reality is a history book masquerading as a physics book, and I liThe Quantum Labyrinth: How Richard Feynman and John Wheeler Revolutionized Time and Reality is a history book masquerading as a physics book, and I like that. I’m just as interested in the history of science as I am in science itself. As the title implies, Paul Halpern focuses on the lives of Feynman and Wheeler, protégés who individually and collectively had their fingers on the pulse of physics for much of the twentieth century. Halpern provides valuable insights into the lives of these two physicists and puts their contributions into the context of their lives and history. That being said, I do feel like this book is incredibly uneven. I received this eARC for free from NetGalley and Perseus Books in exchange for a review … apparently it has been out for a while now though….

Let’s talk some critiques first.

The Quantum Labyrinth doesn’t seem to know who its target audience is. Most physics books start from very basic principles and slowly develop more complicated principles of quantum mechanics on top of that. Halpern doesn’t; he goes hard. Halpern gets very technical in some respects, technical enough that a lay audience not as steeped in physics books as I am would be left wondering about a lot of things. At some points I was wondering if I had skipped an explanation. Just when I was convinced this book is aimed more at an undergrad physics student than anyone else, he’ll hit us with more elementary definitions of a force or a particle or a property—stuff a general audience might know—and I’ll wonder … why.

My related, and main criticism, is that this book is poorly organized and unfocused. The subtitle makes a grand claim, yet Halpern doesn’t pursue this idea of “revolutionizing time and reality” with any kind of direct arguments. He mentions how Feynman and Wheeler bandied about the idea of positrons being electrons travelling back in time (and perhaps all the same electron), yes; he mentions how Wheeler gradually comes around to studying relativity and in fact becomes a leading expert in that field, sure. But these are small details amidst a soup of other small details. Halpern chronicles the physics careers of these individuals, but not in a unified way. If Halpern were sitting in my English class working on an essay I’d remind him that everything needs to explicitly relate back to his thesis….

But there is good here too! Halpern really does include a lot of excellent detail about the lives of these two physicists. I learned so much about these two, who until now were names or the progenitors of concepts I’ve learned about. I learned more about Feynman as a character and a personality, the way he enjoyed the drums, got into stage-acting later in his life, etc. I love hearing these details about historical figures, humanizing them, putting them into the context of their times. Scientists are only, ultimately human, after all, and it’s really important we remember that.

Similarly, this book really made me think about how the theoretical part of science is related to social networking. So much of Feynman and Wheeler’s ideas are the fruit of discussions with each other or other physicists at conferences, impromptu meetings, or chats at one another’s homes. Whether it was a university position or working together on the Manhattan Project, these physicists always influenced each other’s ideas. Whether or not Bohr or another juggernaut liked your idea had a big influence on how many others took it up. A passing comment from Einstein or someone else might give you your next epiphany. Although science has changed a lot over the past century, I think it’s still true that social networks play a role in scientific discoveries and opportunities.

The Quantum Labyrinth is genuinely interesting. If you want to learn more about Feynman or Wheeler, you certainly will do that here. I just think that it won’t be as smooth or straightforward a read as I wanted it to be, reading it during a long work week.

This is the "collRe-read this before seeing the movie (which was excellent, but this is not a movie review). I stand by everything in my first review.

This is the "collector's edition," which just has some extra material at the end, including a short story featuring Khalil which was kind of an origin for this universe. I bought both this edition and the "movie tie-in" edition because I would like to give Angie Thomas all my money.

So, um, owing to a clerical error on my part, I read this before reading #51: The Absolute. Oops! I will definitely go back and read that before goingSo, um, owing to a clerical error on my part, I read this before reading #51: The Absolute. Oops! I will definitely go back and read that before going on, but just keep this fact in mind while reading this otherwise perfect review of #52: The Sacrifice.

Ax has kind of had it with humans in this book, at least at first. Cassie gave up the morphing cube on purpose, and now it looks like the Yeerks are expanding their numbers without any real opposition. In secret communication with the Andalite command, Ax learns the Andalites plan to “quarantine” Earth—that is, try to concentrate as much of the Yeerk population on Earth as possible, then, uh, cleanse the planet. Once again, K.A. Applegate doesn’t shy away from the incredible horrors that get twisted into “making sense” in the name of winning a war.

If you take a step back, though, there’s something even more interesting happening in this part of the series: this is really us learning how the Animorphs deal with losing.

At the very beginning of the series, in contrast, the Animorphs were so fresh and new at this that the reality of their predicament hadn’t really sunk in. Sure, they knew that five kids and an alien probably couldn’t do much about the entire Yeerk presence on Earth—yet that knowledge never stopped them from blithely blundering into Yeerk pools and high-security facilities. They had all the confidence of a mediocre white man and they used it. Yet as the series progresses, as the Animorphs grow up faster than they should, they become far more aware of the potential for loss. Now, with the Yeerks aware of their true identities and the invasion of Earth accelerating and moving into the open, the Animorphs have to confront every bit of the reality of the war and the fact that, try as they might, they probably aren’t strong enough to win it.

Hence the bitterness and recriminations. The Animorphs find themselves thrust into this weird role of quasi-leadership of a much larger resistance. Because it isn’t just the six of them now, I think Ax feels a little more distant from the human Animorphs. It’s no longer small, intimate operations but larger, more complicated, step-by-step missions. Ax gets to see the cracks in the various Animorphs, the way that Rachel is increasingly reckless and violent, or Cassie seems to be obsessing over compassion when she should be thinking strategy. Predictably, for those of us who have gotten to know him over the series, Ax is most hard on himself. He feels his loyalties, to the Animorphs and humans and to his own people, torn. There’s really no good answer here, either. At some point he’s going to have to make some tough decisions.

Still, the internecine arguments here are uncomfortable to say the least!

Returning to the wider plot, we see there’s no good answer here too. Either the Animorphs commit an act of massive destruction at the risk of killing a large number of humans, all to strike a blow against the Yeerks, or they sit by, powerless, as the Yeerks transform more and more people into human-Controllers. There is some good discussion here not just of the morality of this particular issue (which, let’s be fair, is a pretty obvious conundrum) but of the overall approach of fighting the Yeerks: is it permissible to fight back by slaughtering “defenseless” Yeerks while they are in a pool? Or is this a form of genocide, or at the very least, a war crime because these Yeerks are “non-combatants”?

In this way, Applegate and ghostwriter Kim Morris highlight the absurdity of having rules of engagement around war. This is a form of cognitive dissonance possible only because humans, unlike animals, like to pretend we’re civilized. Oh, sure, we’ll fight you: but we have “rules” about who and what and how and when we can fight. Except, as this book and countless others explore, those rules tend to be flexible to the point of tearing, when they aren’t so rigid they just snap.

The book ends, quite literally, with a bang. And it leaves a lot up in the air. The main question, though, really, remains a longstanding one: how far will the Animorphs go?

Next up (after I read the previous book), we’ll see the Animorphs take on the Yeerks even more boldly as they start to shape the answer to that question. I don’t have any more jokes for these outros. This is the dark time.

**spoiler alert** Although To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before was on my radar for a while, thanks to Twitter hype, I actually watched the movie first,**spoiler alert** Although To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before was on my radar for a while, thanks to Twitter hype, I actually watched the movie first, and it definitely motivated me to read the book. I adore the movie. I think it’s so well shot that it’s nearly frame perfect. While I don’t think this is one of those cases of “the movie is better than the book”, I do think it’s a case where the movie and book are equally good for different reasons. In whatever format, though, one thing is clear: Jenny Han’s story of Lara Jean and the letters that were never meant to be sent is a lot of fun even as you fight back some tears.

Lara Jean Song Covey is a high school junior (Grade 11 for us Canadians) who mostly seems to keep to herself at school, at least at first. Her sister Margot broke up with her boyfriend just before leaving to college. That boyfriend? None other than their next-door neighbour, Josh. Lara’s childhood crush on Josh has flared up again as a result, and even as she tries to figure out a “new normal” to their suddenly Margot-less friendship, disaster strikes: somehow the letters she wrote and addressed but deliberately never sent to the five boys she has crushed on get mailed! And so, like you do, Lara Jean has no choice but to start up a fake romantic relationship with one of those boys, Peter, to throw Josh off the trail. Of course, nothing is that simple, and it isn’t long before the lines between fake love and real love are too blurry for comfort.

Man, when I try to describe the plot of this book, it sounds terribly hokey. Let me assure you that it’s anything but. Indeed, that’s the miracle of To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before: Han’s writing, her characterization, is deft enough to avoid making this incredibly contrived situation seem all that contrived. It really helps that, although the core plot involves Lara Jean’s fake relationship, there’s actually so much more happening in this book. There’s Peter working through his feelings about Jen, Josh and Margot working through their feelings about each other, a whole family dynamic among the Song sisters and their father … this is a very rich story, and it’s the kind you can luxuriate in while you soak in a bathtub without worrying about getting lost or bogged down in details.

I’m not going to fall down the rabbithole of comparing the book to the movie and noting all the differences. However, I think one interesting change is how the movie makes it apparent from the start that Kitty is responsible for mailing the letters, whereas the book, to my knowledge, withholds this information from us until the end. (This is what happens with a first person narrator.) The audience’s awareness of the culprit, to me, really heightens the tension—Kitty, by the way, is the best character, and if you disagree, you are wrong.

Also, obviously, the endings are totally different too—again, not really here to contrast them directly, but it’s clear the movie wanted to wrap up everything neatly within the romantic comedy tropes, while the book is more honest in the sense that it leaves a lot up in the air. (I enjoyed both endings.) However, what I really like about both stories is that they are examples of subverting the trope of the male love interest screwing up with the female love interest and having to make an eleventh hour hail Mary to win her back. In this case, Lara Jean is the one who makes mistakes and has to apologize to Peter.

The book also touches more directly in places on Lara Jean’s racial background, her family, and how this influences her experiences. It’s not a huge part of the plot, but this is another example of how movies, for the purposes of time, often have to flatten characterization that is more deeply depicted in the pages of a book.

To return to reviewing the actual book, though: To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before has layers! The romance that drives the central narrative is important, of course, but you know I’m not all about the romance. Really I’m here for the friendship. I love the depiction of Lara Jean and Chris’ friendship. I also love the complex dynamics among the Song sisters, particularly the ways in which, as family, they fight and forgive and make up—because that’s what sisters do. Han isn’t just telling a story about a teenager who fakes having a boyfriend for a few months; this is a carefully layered story about a person who tries to hide one crush by faking another—and, predictably it turns out, this is not a great plan.

I would have liked to learn a little more about Josh’s deal, in general. Other than his tumultuous family life, we don’t get much of a sense of what he’s all about. Where does he want to go to college? What did he see in Margot in the first place? How is he dealing, really, with this break up? This whole aspect of the story is fairly one-sided: Josh is essentially a 2D love interest for Lara Jean to reject by the end of the book. (I love how the movie lampshades this so overtly with Lara Jean’s head!Josh.)

I also love that Peter turns out to be a decent dude after our initial introduction to him as a popular kid dating the popular girl. As with Lara Jean having to make amends above, this is an example of subverting common romantic comedy tropes. There’s a depth to Peter, explored in both the book and the movie, in overt and subtle ways, that makes him a very credible love interest for Lara Jean.

Does To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before deserve the massive hype it receives? No idea. Don’t really care. I read it. I liked it. Maybe I’ll read the sequel. I definitely watched the movie again between reading this book and writing this review (I needed a “feel good” story), and boy howdy is it an amazing movie. Although I stand by my sentiments in the first paragraph, I think I will say that in my case, the movie is a story I want to return to time and again, whereas this book was a great experience, but I’m not sure if I will re-read it any time soon. Nevertheless, it is definitely worth a first reading if it sounds like the type of story you want to read, whether or not you’ve seen the film.

It occurs to me that, with the exception of The Prague Cemetery, since I bought that when it was released, I have basically been reading Umberto EcoIt occurs to me that, with the exception of The Prague Cemetery, since I bought that when it was released, I have basically been reading Umberto Eco’s books in publication order. This is entirely unintentional, and now I only have one more to go … but on the bright side, that sounds like an excuse, after I finish that one, to wrap around and start re-reading them all, in order again!

But I don’t think I’ll be eager to return to The Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana. This is, by far, my least favourite Eco book I’ve read. As usual, I love the insistent intertextuality and the depth of Eco’s writing. As always, he has produced a masterpiece of literature. As sometimes happens with masterpieces of literature, however, the story itself falls flat—and, dear review reader, you know that for me, story is the ultimate drug here. With previous Eco experiences, he always managed to blow my mind while telling an intricate, fascinating tale. With this book, it’s more like he’s reflecting on a number of other tales, many of which I’m not familiar with.

Let’s get into it.

Yambo, as he styled himself before the incident, has amnesia (from a stroke, apparently). He wakes up in a hospital, is reacquainted with his wife and his profession as an antiquarian book dealer. Eventually he ends up in his family country home in Solara, where it’s hoped that spending most of the summer there will jog his lost episodic memory. Although that doesn’t seem to happen—at least not as dramatically as he might like—he does end up kind of “recreating” a generic type of childhood experience by organizing and reviewing the documents and music that he finds there. He listens to “radio” from the 1940s while poring over old comics, magazines, and newspapers, and he ponders growing up as a boy under fascism in Italy.

In one sense, it seems like this whole book exists so Eco can mention and sometimes provide commentary on various forms of pulp fiction, both imported and Italian, in the 1940s. And let me be clear: I’m here for it. I really enjoyed this exploration, because it’s fascinating, from a literary perspective. I know very little about Italy’s literature (from any period), and most of the foreign stories Eco mentions are not familiar to me either. Oh, I’m aware of Flash Gordon and Mickey Mouse (although the stuff Yambo was reading is obviously much older Mickey than I would be used to). And I’ve read The Count of Monte Cristo, which comes up from time to time in this book. Nevertheless, for the most part, I was in the dark about a lot of this—and that’s OK. I never felt like that hindered my ability to enjoy Yambo’s ramble through his past.

On another level, this rambling journey is commentary on growing up under fascism, something Eco has in common with Yambo. Our main character constantly considers how the literature he examines would be received during a time when censorship and doublespeak was rife. He thinks about how growing up around his dissident grandfather might have influenced him. And, of course, he filters everything through his antiquarian book dealer’s mindset—since these skills, unlike his autobiographical memories, have not fled him.

Many of the stories Eco features involve the struggles of heroes or rogues against fascist-like dictators. From Flash Gordon to Sandokan, Yambo remembers growing up on stories of struggle. Eco reminds us that reading a comic where Flash Gordon takes on Ming the Merciless would be a very different experience in Mussolini’s Italy than it would for me here today in Canada. (I guess this is my attempt at syncretizing New Historicism and Reader Response theory?) So from this intertextual perspective, The Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana has a lot I can appreciate.

Unfortunately, as far as the story goes, it’s fairly lacklustre. Certainly nothing like some of Eco’s other novels that I’ve loved. The majority of the book takes place in or around Yambo’s family summer home. Towards the end, he finally begins to relive some of the memories of his youth, which are also mostly in the same area. Without spoiling the ending, I’ll say that the last part of the book is kind of a fugue of memories and can occasionally feel incoherent. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t skim a couple of places where I was getting bogged down. When that happens, I know a book has really lost me.

Sometimes this happens with difficult books—but that’s just the thing. This is not a difficult book. I don’t think the level of philosophical depth here is anywhere near the level of The Name of the Rose or Foucault’s Pendulum. (On the other hand, please don’t interpret that remark as a charge that there is zero depth here. As mentioned above, Eco always has intensely fascinating things to say—but this book is far less inscrutable than some of his others.)

The Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana has long been on my to-read list in my quest to read all of Eco’s novels. I picked up this used copy from a bookstore in Montreal, so I’ll always fondly remember that. The story herein? Probably not so much.

One year ago I read Tanya Talaga’s Seven Fallen Feathers, in which she remembers the seven Indigenous youths who died far from home while attendingOne year ago I read Tanya Talaga’s Seven Fallen Feathers, in which she remembers the seven Indigenous youths who died far from home while attending Dennis Franklin Cromarty High School here in Thunder Bay. In that heartbreaking and essential work, she links these deaths to a structure of colonialism and white supremacy and an ongoing form of cultural genocide in which the government and the rest of us remain complicit. Now Talaga is back with this year’s CBC Massey Lectures; All Our Relations: Finding the Path Forward widens the scope of this discussion to look at the high rate of Indigenous suicides all over the world. Beyond talking just about suicide, though, Talaga wants us to consider how colonialism interferes with Indigenous ways of knowing and being, and how this is ultimately the root cause of the suicides and other issues in Indigenous communities. As its subtitle implies, Talaga is not without hope. This book is an outstretched arm, asking everyone—white settler, Indigenous person, person of colour, etc.—to ask difficult questions of ourselves and our institutions and to create real change so we can save real lives.

I love the chapter titles: “We Were Always Here”, “Big Brother’s Hunger”, “The Third Space”, “'I Breathe for Them'”, and “We Are Not Going Anywhere” (yesssss!). These titles alone communicate the arc of Talaga’s talks: first she grounds herself in the history, then she examines the effects of colonialism, before she discusses what so many people within these communities are doing already to try to improve conditions. Finally, Talaga asserts that there is hope, and there are so many viable possibilities out there to prevent youth suicide. What’s really needed is actual commitment to change rather than empty words and promises. As she quotes Mushkegowuk Grand Council Chief Jonathan Solomon saying, “We don’t need another study or inquiry. Everything has been studied and these studies are just collecting dust on a shelf”. The government is very good at promising change; it is much worse at actually delivering change for the better.

Talaga does in this book what a journalist does best: she amplifies the voices of so many people across time and space from these communities, uniting their stories into a bigger picture. We hear the palpable frustration, anger, and sadness from so many individuals; we hear the strident confidence, hope, and determination from some of those same individuals who are even now fighting for change and for lives. Alongside these often personal tales, Talaga grounds us in the history of Canada, Norway, Brazil, and Australia. The conditions that create suicidal thoughts in these communities came from somewhere, and this is where All Our Relations shines.

Talaga demolishes, directly and forcefully, the idea that traumas inflicted upon Indigenous peoples by settler governments should be located and left in the past. She makes it clear that the physical, biological, and cultural genocides of Indigenous peoples have left a lasting, inter-generational mark on these peoples: “Generations of Indigenous children have grown up largely in communities without access to the basic determinants of health…. Children are not in control of their determinants of health. They are born into them.” I mean, this is not hard to grasp, yet it seems like a lot of people in this country are willing to lay the blame for this on the communities themselves rather than the structures in place that prevent them from having the funding, infrastructure, and independence—the security and sovereignty—to guarantee these determinants themselves.

It’s not just a lack of safe drinking water or inadequate access to healthcare, though, that’s at issue. As the title of the book indicates, this is a spiritual issue as well. Suicide rates among Indigenous people are so high because colonialism has harmed not only their physical wellbeing but also their spiritual and emotional connections to the land, to their histories, and to their cultures. Talaga makes this point throughout each and every lecture. In the first chapter she says, “Indigenous people have been trapped in these identity constructions in part because of their near-complete absence from the written narratives of the colonist nations”, arguing that it’s essential Indigenous voices can tell their stories (in their own language as well as that of the colonizers) to pass on Indigenous knowledge and culture. At the end of the last chapter, she says, “All children … need to know who their ancestors are, who their heroes and villains are; they need to know about their family’s traditions and cultures and the community they are a part of”. I mean, when you put it that way … it’s simple, really. This is what we settlers need to realize: Indigenous people have always only ever been asking for the same dignity and respect that we accord each other, the opportunity to live in their ways, pass on their ways, raise their children in their ways. And we have responded, over these past centuries, with the most intense failure mode of empathy a society can experience.

It’s past time we change that.

I had the privilege of taking my class of adult high school students to a book talk with Talaga ahead of her Massey Lecture here in Thunder Bay tonight. I loved listening to her speak, in response to questions from an interviewer as well as audience questions, about the issues around her books and how they relate to her life, to this land, and to these communities. Her voice as I heard it on stage comes through in these books. Read both of them, and you’ll learn so much history while also understand the vital importance of taking action to change these systems.

Throughout her talk to us today, Talaga emphasized that this is an issue of equity. Talaga asks us to examine who we are and where we come from. She reminds us that this is an important exercise, regardless of our race or background. She reminds us that Indigenous people around the world are looking only for what so many people already have: dignity, respect, the ability to retain their culture and beliefs. These are not difficult things to achieve, if we stop standing in the way. All Our Relations makes a case that shouldn’t need to be made, but Talaga makes it with eloquence and empathy.

For a while now I’ve been morbidly fascinated by Doomsday Preppers. I’ll stick an episode on in the background (it’s on Netflix, at least here in CanaFor a while now I’ve been morbidly fascinated by Doomsday Preppers. I’ll stick an episode on in the background (it’s on Netflix, at least here in Canada) while eating dinner or doing something else. While it’s good to be prepared for emergencies, the preppers and survivalists featured in the show take this idea to extremes that are equal parts fascinating and horrifying (especially when this obsession ultimately affects a loved one or children). And, of course, their disaster scenario of choice is usually so far-fetched as to be unbelievable … yet there is always that lingering question of, if such a breakdown of society occurred, would they really fare as well as they believe?

I know I’d be screwed….

Moon of the Crusted Snow is technically a post-apocalyptic novel, but only in the same sense that Trail of Lightning, by Rebecca Roanhorse, is post-apocalyptic. Waubgeshig Rice makes this point clear when an elder explains, “Our world isn’t ending. It already ended. It ended when the Zhaagnaash [white people] came into our original home down south on that bay and took it from us.” This is a key point to remember in reading this novel: yes, this is a survival story, but within the wider context in that the story of Indigenous peoples on Turtle Island has been a survival story ever since Contact.

Set in a fictional Anishnaabe community in northern Ontario, Moon of the Crusted Snow chronicles the community’s response to the loss of hydro and food deliveries following an unspecified event in the south. The main character, Evan Whitesky, is a fairly solid member of the community. He has been stockpiling meat for the winter, for he prefers it to the expensive Northern store food, and he does well during the crisis. He keeps his head on the shoulders and helps the councillors and chief maintain order and keep people safe, at least at first. But as the cold winter continues, and a disruptive element from the south arrives, Evan’s dreams become more troubling, and he wonders if his community can keep it together until the spring thaw.

Look, I’m a settler, so it’s not my lane to comment on the portrayal of the Anishnaabe characters or their community in this book. This is Rice’s own people/heritage here, bolstered by his conversations with elders and with people who have lived in even more remote communities. I’ve been to a remote community, and I’m familiar with some of the conditions described here from those visits and from what I hear in media and my students who come from those places. Nevertheless, it’s not what I know. It’s not, indeed, what most Canadians know. For settler readers, this book will hopefully be somewhat eye-opening to the realities of life on a reserve.

What can I comment on? I would say this is a very well-crafted suspense novel. Rice starts with the quiet seclusion of Gaawaandagkoong First Nation: the book opens with Evan hunting by himself in the bush, quietly killing and then butchering a bull moose. This quiet shades into the quiet that comes when the hum of power lines and the buzz of telecommunications falls silent. Then the quiet of a winter backed by people desperately trying to conserve food and power, even as the dead begin to mount. Then, atop all of this, looms the spectre of the wendigo and the white man hungry not just for food, but for power…. The question isn’t just who survives this winter but how and whether or not they can live with themselves and their decisions.

I really like the protagonist. I can’t identify much with him: I’m not a parent, not a hunter or outdoorsman of any kind, definitely not as practical as him. Nevertheless, like I said above, he’s solid. He makes decisions based on necessity but also compassion. He’s somewhat of a leader but also happy to back up others—and one of the ways in which Evan grows in this novel is discovering that capacity for leadership. I love the depiction of his loving relationship with his partner, Nicole, and the way they are raising a family together, keeping their traditions alive and contributing to their community. For a novel that is ultimately about survival in extremes, Moon of the Crusted Snow has many positive depictions of everyday Indigenous success and resilience.

I don’t have any complaints about the length (which is fairly short for a novel). It works well; the pacing is great. My enjoyment of the ending is marred only by the context of reading it in an emergency room (I wasn’t the one ill), so I was tired and not in a great mood, and this book is not a mood-lifter by any means. My other main criticism would be that Rice’s prose tends towards purple at times; I’m not a huge fan of his descriptive or narrative style. This is largely what prevents me from cheering on the book as much as others might: I liked the story, the plot, the characters, but the writing itself leaves me lukewarm.

Overall, definitely recommended, especially if these types of survival stories are more your thing. You want to be in the right mindset to read this one. I loved it for what it is, and it’s a powerful story. But I’m curious to see if Rice’s other work, or future work, might be even better for me.

It’s time for another Holly Bourne book, and if you’ve been following along my reviews, then you know what to expect by now: incisive, excellent narraIt’s time for another Holly Bourne book, and if you’ve been following along my reviews, then you know what to expect by now: incisive, excellent narration from a teenage girl who is at a turning point in her life, some kind of crisis moment, and a lot of honest discussions about mental health, sex, romance, and friendship. In other words, it’s an epitome of a subgenre of YA in which Bourne has carved out a considerable niche. It Only Happens in the Movies is Bourne’s first standalone YA novel after finishing The Spinster Club series, and it departs from that series enough to stand out while still presenting the same fresh, feminist ideas that are a hallmark of Bourne’s writing.

Audrey was named after Audrey Hepburn, of course—her dad proposed to her mom in Rome because of Roman Holiday. But now her dad has left her mom for a younger model, including new kids, and that makes Audrey’s home life … stressed, to say the least. She has started an after-school job at a boutique cinema. She pegs her male coworker, Harry, as a “fuckboy” right off the bat—yet that doesn’t change the feelings she starts to develop as they bond over cinema. With all these stresses and complications, it’s no wonder Audrey looks at the canon of romantic comedies and finds her life wanting. Because some of these things only do happen in the movies….

Although I can’t identify with Audrey’s romance plot, I definitely found it fascinating. Bourne explores the complicated feelings that surround falling in love with someone you’re determined not to fall for. Everyone warns Audrey off Harry, and she herself resolves not to be attracted to him—yet it happens anyway. Even when she recognizes he might not be the best thing for her, she still goes for it. I enjoyed not just how Audrey expresses her evolving feelings about this, but also how her family and friends react. Audrey feels isolated and estranged from her best friend group after avoiding them for much of the summer; once they learn about Harry, they practically push her to pick him up as a “rebound guy”. I cringed for Audrey at this point, and part of me regrets the inevitability of Audrey and Harry becoming a thing—but I really like how, overall, Bourne handles the entire relationship, especially the ending.

There is a sharp tension in It Only Happens in the Movies delineated exactly by its title: this book aims to critique and subvert romantic comedy tropes, even as it pursues a romance for its protagonist. I enjoyed the epigraphs explaining some of these tropes in Audrey’s voice, and the moments she discusses them with her peers and teacher. And then there’s the zombie movie that Harry is shooting, and in which Audrey acquires the starring role: the genre is so thoroughly distinct from the romantic movies Audrey critiques that it’s a nice foil, even as Audrey’s feminist stance informs her character of the “zombie bride”.

The ultimate aspect of that tension comes in the resolution, of course. Inevitably, Harry screws things up (saw that coming). Inevitably, there is a grand, romantic gesture that he hopes will win her back. In the movies this always works … in It Only Happens in the Movies, it also works, just not quite in the way Harry expects. I really, really liked this ending. So often our stories about romance depict one of two outcomes: happily ever after together, or at odds entirely. The reality is usually messier, though, and Bourne captures that well with this: Audrey respects Harry as a film auteur, appreciates his gesture, wishes him well … but doesn’t give him a second chance. In this way, It Only Happens in the Movies serves as a good tonic to a lot of teenage romance, which like the romantic movies that Audrey criticizes, often have unrealistic assumptions about how people (particularly teenage boys) will reform in the final act. It’s very cathartic. And it’s a nice way of portraying how, sometimes, we make mistakes we can’t come back from, and while we might receive forgiveness, that doesn’t mean we deserve a second chance, no matter how grand our gesture.

But the fun doesn’t stop there! There are entire other layers to this book, and I actually liked some of them even more than the romance plot. Take, for example, Audrey’s complicated relationship with her parents and brother. Audrey’s mom is struggling with the fallout of her divorce, and Audrey has to step up and parent her parent more than a seventeen-year-old girl should have to do. Her brother thinks he is doing his bit, but Audrey has her doubts, and she feels like too much falls on her shoulders. Meanwhile, Audrey tries to maintain a connection to her dad, even when it’s somewhat clear that he isn’t that interested in being in her life beyond formalities. It’s very compelling, watching her struggle to hold on to some sense of normality in her family ties, even as her definition of family fluctuates and might implode.

As with Bourne’s other novels, this one definitely tugs at my heartstrings. I found myself a little emotional, a little teary, especially towards the end. I’m having trouble articulating how much I enjoyed this one, but I hope I got across how fresh and entertaining It Only Happens in the Movies feels. It’s Not Your Average Teenage Romance, but it also isn’t cynical or dismissive of the idea of teenage romance either. Bourne acknowledges the complicated realities of being a teenage girl on the cusp of adulthood, portrays all the stresses and obligations a young adult must weigh even as she tries to figure out her feelings about friends and lovers. There’s so much I didn’t touch on in this review that I also enjoyed, and honestly, I’m almost tempted to go back and read the book again, this soon! So far, seems like Bourne keeps bottling lightning, and I’m happy to remain an unabashed fanboy!

For a while now, I’ve been eschewing posthumanism. Walking on the wild side of nanotechnology was starting to get too much like science fantasy for myFor a while now, I’ve been eschewing posthumanism. Walking on the wild side of nanotechnology was starting to get too much like science fantasy for my tastes. The Quantum Magician is an exception that I’m happy I made: Derek Künsken’s story of a genetically engineered con artist is delightful, and it explores posthumanist ideas in a way that feels fresh. Although I wouldn’t say any of the characters (not even the protagonist) endeared themselves to me, the plot is enjoyable and thought-provoking.

Full disclosure, I received this through NetGalley! Send me all ur free books.

Belisarius Arjona, or “Bel” to his friends, is a Homo quantus. In this far future universe, humanity has tinkered with genetic engineering, producing such offshoots as the Numen (who created the reviled Puppets), the Tribe of the Mongrel (aka Homo eridanus), and Bel’s own subspecies. The Homo quantus have biological adaptations that help them sense not just magnetic fields but quantum states. Bel is capable of entering a fugue state where his consciousness decoheres, leaving an intellect of pure quantum computation. Bel has parted ways with the project that created him, and he lives on his own, pulling cons for organizations large and small to keep his brain occupied. When a military hires him to con their fleet through a wormhole junction, he has to assemble a rag-tag group of misfits to pull it off. Oh yeah, there’s a “getting the team together” part to this book, and it delivers.

The Quantum Magician actually is rather formulaic when you look at it from a macro view. The thing about formula is that it’s good when it’s used the way Künsken uses it, i.e., to ground the reader in an otherwise unfamiliar setting. The same might be said for something like The Lies of Locke Lamora, wherein Lynch likewise exploits the familiar tropes of a con artist team in order to spin a much more fantastic yarn. That’s what’s happening here: strip away the fancy terminology, the genetic engineering, the AIs who think they are reincarnated saints … and you just have a con. You have a caper. It’s Ocean’s Eleven but in space in the far future and with wormholes and so, so much better as a result.

I love the pacing in particular. The book builds and builds and builds, but it never feels like it’s running slow. Künsken never infodumps. Each chapter is a new scene, a new place, as we follow Bel on his travels to assemble his team, and each visit brings new ideas and new information to the forefront. It’s like a whistle-stop tour, and it hints at this big, rich universe beyond that we don’t get to explore as much as we might want. Leave them wanting more! Finally, after we have the team and the walkthrough and the twists and betrayals, there is an action-packed climax that actually got me worried for a moment about how the con would go. There are a lot of moving parts, and I’m impressed with how Künsken brings everything together.

As I mentioned earlier, the handling of posthumanism is quite well done. Obviously there’s Bel himself. We meet another Homo quantus, old flame Cassandra, whose opinions of their genetic engineering are very different from Bel’s. This juxtaposition is really nice, and it lets us consider the pros and cons of what Bel and Cassandra are capable of doing. It also sets up a romance that is, in my opinion, quite well done because of its subtlety. It’s there, but it isn’t a big focus in the story.

In addition to Bel, each member of the team embodies other posthuman qualities. Some, like Del Casal and Maria, might not be as obvious—they are closer to baseline human, but they live in a posthuman world and are used to interacting with posthumans. William’s conversion into a faux Numen, and his relationship with Gates-15 and the other Numen–obsessed Puppets, takes us down quite a chilling and disturbing rabbithole. Then we have Stills, the Homo eridanus, in whom Künsken explores how far from baseline human we can get and still be “human”. While we learn relatively little about the origins of these projects, who oversees them, etc., it’s clear that in this universe, humanity remains a dynamic, fractured, squabbling civilization that just happens to have some wormhole junctions nowadays. It’s fantastic.

If, like me, you are a sucker for a good con story, you need to check out The Quantum Magician. It’s posthuman SF blended with con artistry, with fun characters, lots of swearing, and perfect pacing and action.

How Music Got Free: The End of an Industry, the Turn of the Century, and the Patient Zero of Piracy was published in 2015, and I was a little worriedHow Music Got Free: The End of an Industry, the Turn of the Century, and the Patient Zero of Piracy was published in 2015, and I was a little worried that being three years old would already render it obsolete. Fortunately, I was wrong. Stephen Witt’s explanation of the rise of mp3 and the transition from CDs to digital stores to streaming, along with the corresponding piracy, is clear and detailed and incredibly fascinating. This is the type of non-fiction I like: full of facts and figures, but organized in such a way that it tells a compelling story while you’re reading.

Witt starts off in the late eighties and early nineties. He essentially tells two parallel tales: Karlheinz Brandenburg’s team at Fraunhofer invents and perfects the mp3, while Dell Glover works at a CD printing plant in North Carolina, where he becomes the leading source of pirated music. Along the way, we also spend time with Doug Morris, a prominent record executive, and various pirate groups and the law enforcement officers trying to shut them down. That might sound scattered, but Witt manages to bring everything together into a coherent and unified look a the the past thirty years of the music industry.

I’m a little younger than Witt. His introduction places him in college in 1997, cramming a 2 GB hard drive full of pirated tunes. I turned 8 in 1997, and I wasn’t much into music at that point. In fact, I was a very late bloomer when it came to forming personal musical tastes and beginning to collect my own music—I think I was well into high school, by which time the iTunes Store was well established. Although I did buy or receive many CDs (mostly movie soundtracks and classical stuff) around that age, my first real experience with collecting music was already digital. I never much got into pirating—I missed that golden age, coming in just after Napster when everything had fragmented and you had to try your luck with torrents and Kazaa or Limewire. I had no trouble getting iTunes Store gift cards for my birthday or Christmas and spending those on $0.99 tracks and $9.99 albums; I chafed at the DRM, for sure, and celebrated when Apple did away with it. Since then, I’ve moved on to another storefront, 7digital, mostly because I try to avoid using iTunes itself these days. I haven’t subscribed to any streaming services—I like to own my music, even if it does exist as lossy bits on a hard drive.

I love how Witt balances the social history with a technical explanation of the workings of the mp3 format. As a mathematician, I’m fascinated by the information-theoretical underpinnings of the mp3. Witt goes into a lot of detail regarding the experiments that Brandenburg’s team did to tailor the mp3’s compression algorithm to best store the components of audio that human ears can detect. In particular, we learn a lot about the struggle to capture in the best fidelity the “lone speaker”. Alongside this technical overview comes the chronicle of the mp3 repeatedly facing rejection from MPEG as a new standard. I never knew that it basically lost out to mp2 as the format of choice—at least until some fateful twists and turns made it into the number one format for streaming pirated music, and then … well, the rest is history and the mp3 is here to stay.

By the same token, Witt provides more detail about the history of music piracy than I ever knew. Obviously early pirated music had to come from CDs, but I didn’t know they were being smuggled so brazenly out of the manufacturing plants. And I didn’t know the nature of the underground community, the way there were l33t groups who took pride in orchestrating and coordinating a release of a pirated album ahead of its actual release date. I really enjoy learning about these kinds of subcultures that existed in the earlier eras of the Internet but have now morphed or disappeared. The Internet has moved so fast in the past ten years that it’s easy, especially for us young’uns, to forget there have been entire movements that sprang up and died off prior to that time.

I also like how we have a very nuanced portrait of the music industry. It’s easy, in my opinion, to be sympathetic to pirates and artists both, and to have a bit of a one-dimensional view of the music executives. Yet Witt emphasizes how, for better or worse, there was a symbiotic ecosystem happening among artists, executives, and consumers. And as the technology changed, of course the industry changed—but why it changed the way it did is so incredibly fascinating.

And then there’s Dell Glover. He grows and matures over the decade he pirates music. He starts as a risk-taking, cool car–driving bootlegger and turns into a more responsible father who decides he no longer wants the heat associated with pirating. It’s interesting to see Witt recount the details of Glover’s involvement in what was quite literally this international operation to leak new releases.

There are a few aspects of How Music Got Free I didn’t like, mostly to do with Witt’s writing. At times, some of the analogies he uses felt dated or awkward or just in bad taste, like when he compares something to an alcoholic who can’t avoid the bottle or something along those lines (it has been over a week since I finished the book, so my memory has already blurred). I just remember thinking, “Um, that wasn’t necessary, where is your editor, young man?” At other points, Witt either introduces or fails to introduce concepts, technologies, parts of history, etc., that don’t need or definitely need, respectively, that introduction. Just some odd editing choices overall.

None of that dampens my enthusiasm for this book, though. It’s a lovely little history of a particular part of the music industry, the era that was the jump from physical to digital media, and some of the internecine conflicts among artists and executives and fans and audience alike. How Music Got Free lives up to the expectations set by its bombastic title, and I learned a great deal from this relatively short non-fiction read!

It is with no small amount of regret that I announce I have never been mistaken for a fearsome space pirate. On the other hand, that’s probably for thIt is with no small amount of regret that I announce I have never been mistaken for a fearsome space pirate. On the other hand, that’s probably for the best. I’m not going to be sent to space army school like Ia Cōcha in Ignite the Stars. The result is an intense story from Maura Milan about divided loyalties and the necessity of questioning authority in the face of injustice.

Ia is seventeen years old but is already infamous in the Olympus Commonwealth as a criminal, a rogue, a pirate—and a killer. Ia sees herself as a bit of a freedom fighter, thumbing the nose of the Commonwealth and standing up for the little people on the liminal spaces of the Commonwealth’s Fringe. When the Commonwealth finally captures Ia, they force her to attend their space force training academy, as a symbol of their strength: look, our worst enemy turns out to be a teenager we’re press-ganging into service! Meanwhile, the Commonwealth enjoys fostering resentment of refugees, particularly the Tawnies. Brinn is a Tawny (but she doesn’t like showing it) who has just started her first year at the academy. Guess who her roommate is….

Stellar worldbuilding (pun intended) from Milan here. With a dearth of exposition (albeit a reliance on typical tropes, like an evil federation/empire, etc.) she nevertheless unfolds an entire universe for us. It doesn’t take long to inhabit the Olympus Commonwealth and its political intrigue, even as we end up at a type of space Hogwarts complete with well-intentioned but mathematically befuddled space Dumbledore. Combine this with the odd couple pairing of rule-breaking Ia and rule-obsessed Brinn, and we have ourselves a recipe for a pretty good story.

The friendships in this book are, for me, the best parts. Brinn and Ia’s comes to dominate, of course, and it’s fun watching it develop. When Brinn first meets Ia, she is understandably intimidated to the point of locking herself in their room’s bathroom for the first several nights. Eventually, the two come to an understanding—thanks to some blackmail—but it takes a long time for a hint of true friendship to develop. I appreciate that Milan doesn’t rush this, that for a while it seems like Ia is truly intent only on escape, no matter the price.

Honourable mention, though, to Brinn and Angie’s relationship. When Milan first introduces Angie, I uncharitably assumed she was a stock antagonist—and a petty, unimportant one at that. Boy was I wrong! Angie’s character acquires more depth as the story continues, reminding us that, although it’s probably rarer than we’d like, people do change, grow, and learn. The way Brinn and Angie’s detente evolves into friendship is really nice to see.

I haven’t mentioned Knives at all yet, and that’s on purpose. Honestly, I don’t mind Knives himself as a character. I get he has daddy issues. But I hate the implicit romantic tension between Knives and Ia—ugh, just so predictable; it does nothing for me. If it gets you going, great; you are welcome to it!

Knives is just a specific case of a broader issue with Ignite the Stars, in my opinion: the characterization is uneven and sometimes quite unoriginal. Brilliant young flight instructor whose daddy is a top-ranking general, and they don’t see eye-to-eye? Yawn. Bigotry against a particular ethnicity while at a military academy? Also seen that. And, on a related note, I could have done with a bit more exposition when it comes to the Tawnies. They seem to be a sub-species, offshoot, or genetic variant of humanity? Because their differences aren’t just cosmetic, since they have enhanced cognitive capabilities.

Huge kudos to Milan, though, for the reveal regarding the Tawnies and how the Big Bad was using them towards the end there … no spoilers, but I was literally thinking that such a thing made the most logical sense, in this universe, given what they were trying to accomplish. So I’m really happy that Milan agreed with me on that point and lifted the curtain enough to give us a glimpse of that.

Other points of confusion: how do ships get around? We hear a lot of talk of “gates”, which I assume are wormhole/hyperspace contraptions, but it’s never clear to me if these gates exist only in-atmosphere or if some are spaceborne. There’s a lot of references to “planes”, which implies sub-orbital capability only to me, so I’m not sure if this universe actually has any true spaceships—or are “planes” capable of both atmospheric and spaceflight? Questions, questions….

I think I’m a little disappointed because I just really wanted there to be more to this story. Ia herself is an interesting protagonist. But we know so little about her backstory, beyond the general idea that she’s a crusader for justice against the big bad evil space empire. The same goes for the other characters. Milan assembles these tropes into a serviceable narrative, and I like the theme, and I certainly enjoyed reading the book and gobbling up the action scenes … but nothing jumped out at me that felt particularly fresh. I like my stories to surprise me once in a while, and so while Ignite the Stars has a lot of fuel, it never really caught fire for me.

I picked Textrovert up on a whim because the premise looked interesting. The premise is interesting, and I liked many of the individual elements of thI picked Textrovert up on a whim because the premise looked interesting. The premise is interesting, and I liked many of the individual elements of the story … yet it just didn’t come together for me. Lindsey Summers has a fantastic idea of a story and competent writing, but there’s something missing.

Keeley thinks she has lost her phone; when she retrieves it, she learns it is actually another student’s phone, and he is away at football camp for a week. So they agree to forward messages, and then they get to know one another. Keeley finds she can be more forward when texting with Talon—almost flirtatious. But there is more to Talon than she knows about, and these secrets will interfere with her relationship with her twin brother, Zack.

Summers has a great set-up here, and I have to give her credit for all the moving parts she puts into the mix. Although some of the reveals, such as Talon’s identity, are telegraphed a little too overtly for my tastes, they are still executed in a satisfying way. And I don’t envy Keeley the choice she has to make in the end; I could see it going either way (though I’m not really surprised by the way it does go), because this is a good example of YA fiction where the love interest isn’t a stereotypically “good” or “bad” person but an actual, complex human being who has made mistakes. Often the hardest decision we have to make is whether or not we choose to give someone a second chance. Honestly, not sure what Keeley sees in Talon to begin with, but I guess that’s neither here nor there.

I got through Textrovert in a couple of hours—it isn’t very long. Moreover, it is extremely straightforward. Girl meets boy, girl falls for boy, there’s a twist that threatens their relationship, and in the final act we learn if they can surmount that obstacle and still be together. Keeley is worried about which colleges she should apply to; she is navigating the rocky transition of her and her brother’s relationship from adolescence to adulthood; her brother and Talon are both involved in football … in other words, very typical teenage stories.

I love some of these individual subplots. I really enjoyed the way Summers portrays the dynamic between Keeley and Zack. Despite being behind on schoolwork and constantly losing her phone, Keeley seems to be “the responsible one”, even though Zack is “the golden boy”. Zack defines himself, at least for now, around football—that’s how he is choosing a college. Keeley doesn’t know what she wants to do; she feels aimless, and she resents both her twin and her father for pressuring her to choose a California school. These are all readily identifiable traits, and I like how Summers develops the theme of choosing your own path. Similarly, there’s a small but significant conflict between Keeley and her best friend, Nicky, regarding the amount of time they spent together over the summer and Nicky’s opinions about Talon.

Unfortunately, these individual subplots don’t come together in a unified, harmonious way (at least for me). I’m left wanting more from Textrovert. Really, I think what I’m missing is a more profound look at Keeley’s character development. We’re told that she is only this way with Talon, that she isn’t nearly as outgoing with others … but we don’t get to know her very much before she meets Talon, so it’s hard to see that. We learn she has an ex, and we briefly meet him later on in the book, but we learn very little about their relationship.

Textrovert has some fun and successful elements to it. I like a lot of the set-up and the subplots. Nevertheless, I think it could have gone deeper into so many of those elements and delivered an even stronger, more kickass story. This was a pleasant diversion in the time I read it, but it hasn’t left much of an impression.

Imagine you live in a world where a significant percentage of the population has a simple but necessary job: they sit in a booth, and every so often,Imagine you live in a world where a significant percentage of the population has a simple but necessary job: they sit in a booth, and every so often, a light comes on, and when it does, they push a button in front of them, and the light goes out. As long as they do that, all day every day, we have electricity and fuel and plastics and all these conveniences we rely on in our modern age. Except there’s a catch (there always is): one day, perhaps quite by accident, we discover that sometimes—not always, but sometimes—when one pushes the button, a person in another country dies. At first this just seems like gross coincidence—there couldn’t possibly be a connection, people die all the time, how could the buttons be killing people? But 99% of scientists eventually agree, based on extensive evidence and modelling, that there is a link. And so many people begin to suggest, tentatively at first and then with increasing agitation, that we move away from the buttons, that we explore alternatives. The politicians deny, then resist, then most of them start to agree—in principle, at least. But they shrug and hem and haw and say things about “the economy” and “jobs” and “sensible transition timelines” and meanwhile we go on still pressing the button and killing people because jobs.

If this metaphor has been too subtle for you, perhaps you need to read The World According to Anna, which is incredibly unsubtle in its portrayal of the consequences and costs of ignoring climate change yet harrowing and effective nonetheless. I’ve read a few novels that imagine the terrible consequences of our anthropogenic future—Paolo Bacigalupi’s The Water Knife comes to mind—and often they imagine post-apocalyptic scenarios. And fair enough. What strikes me as interesting about Jostein Gaarder’s approach is how he portrays a future every bit as quotidian and stable as ours (at least in Norway), just different (and certainly rueful).

Anna is on the verge of turning sixteen, and she has a lot on her mind. She has just inherited her aunt’s ruby ring. She has a brand new boyfriend, Jonas. And her vivid imagination has her dreaming that she is other people—most notably, her great-granddaughter, Nova, who lives in a world ravaged by climate change. This weighs so heavily on Anna in the present that she determines she must do something to change this future; she must give the future generations one more chance. And so she and Jonas discuss how best to do this, while she continues to experience episodes from Nova’s perspective, and worry about the kidnapped daughter of a psychiatrist she met once in Oslo and liked because he talked to her like she was an adult.

Look, if you came here expecting a riveting plot or character development … you are going to be severely disappointed. This reads more like a novella than a novel, and most of the characters, save maybe Anna, are one- or two-dimensional stock characters who are there to help hold up a mirror to Anna’s thoughts. The plot itself is very much on rails and isn’t so much about what Anna does or doesn’t do as it is about how her state of mind changes from beginning to end of the book, about grappling with and wrapping her head around the incredibly large and serious problem of climate change.

Normally I’m all about story, and I’m the first person to criticize a book for sacrificing story at the altar of polemicism. So maybe I’m a hypocrite … but I really liked The World According to Anna. I think it’s the earnestness with which Gaarder portrays his agenda, the seriousness he assigns to young Anna. This isn’t supposed to be a rah-rah inspirational piece about a girl who suddenly stands up for climate change and “makes a difference”. It’s a message to us, a reminder that this is not an issue we can dodge. Though this book has a young adult protagonist, I wouldn’t say it is a young adult book, necessarily: adults can and should read this too, if only to be jolted from our tacit complacency when it comes to climate change.

The book starts off fairly basic, broaching the subject with the standard warnings about how climate change leads to habitat loss, extinction, refugees, etc. This is hopefully not news to most of us, even if our opinions on the severity of the phenomenon and what we should do about it vary. And if Gaarder had stayed on this level, I definitely would be more critical of the book. Instead, he goes deeper. He doesn’t just lament the lack of political will to do something (such as failing to meet emissions targets)—he laments the fact that we seem to have made our peace, as a species, with our failure to do something:

We are a selfish generation. We are a brutish generation. There is little understanding of the idea that the generations after us may need some of this energy. A word we rarely use is “save”. But words like “eco-conscious” and “carbon-neutral” appear more and more in newspapers. We have developed a language, almost a nonsense-language, which has nothing to do with reality.

Uggggh I so identify with this. Look, I live in Canada, not the United States. Most of our country, and at least the current federal government, acknowledge that climate change is anthropogenic and a serious problem (or they say they acknowledge it). Even though we’ve moved past that denial stage, though, we’ve yet to really do much about it. And often anything that is proposed gets couched in that language—carbon-neutral in particular rings so many bells. Especially here in Canada, where, yes, a significant portion of our economy is driven by resource extraction, including bitumen extraction from the Alberta oil sands: as much as our government makes noise about climate change and energy innovation, time and again it supports oil sands development, to the extent that it literally bought a pipeline to make sure the pipeline would be built. And when people protest and call the government on this hypocrisy, the politicians shrug and remind us that as much as they like the environment, this is first and foremost about jobs and the economy—because they know that “jobs” are what get them elected.

But there has to come a point where we ask what moral price we are willing to pay to guarantee “jobs” for people in our country. The button analogy might seem simplistic, but that’s basically the effect of the fossil fuel industry, albeit on a more attenuated, less one-to-one scale: the actions we take to extract and then export or consume oil and gas here in Canada have a tremendous effect on a global scale, up to and including endangering the lives of other humans (not to mention the mass extinction that Gaarder harps upon in this book). So far we seem OK with these negative consequences because they are indirect enough and far enough away that we can ignore them long enough to sleep soundly at night. They aren’t “in our face” yet.

Gaarder is quite critical of the way politicians spin this to be about jobs and economics:

The world needs more oil and gas to lift more people out of poverty, they say. But they’re lying. They know they’re not driven by the interests of the poor. They know better than anyone that the rich countries’ consumption of yet more oil and gas will only make matters worse for the very poorest. It is the oil companies and the richest oil-producing nations who want more profit.

Nailed. It. This is something I’ve been thinking about a lot lately, in the aftermath of the ridiculous straw ban debacle, and this is why my environmentalism, like my feminism, must be intersectional and anti-capitalist.

So much of the rhetoric around climate change today is predicated upon our obsession with individualism and individual action. You need to do your part: use less, consume less, buy less, waste less, recycle more, shop more responsibility, etc. Company not environmentally-friendly enough for your liking? Don’t buy from them! It doesn’t matter if they’re the only game in town (or the only viable option sometimes, cough, Amazon, cough)—you have a duty to use your wallet to vote! If you use a straw, you are morally responsible for the death of every single dolphin. Ever.

Individuals definitely have a role to play in reducing carbon emissions. I use LED bulbs and turn the lights off when I’m not in the room. I try to drive less and cycle or walk more. I hang my clothing to dry, weather permitting and provided, you know, a tree hasn’t fallen and knocked over the clothesline pole (sigh). I’m not trying to say that we are all, individually, off the hook. We should try to reduce our individual footprints, consume less, recycle more, avoid extraneous plastic, etc. That’s a laudable goal.

But it isn’t enough. It will never be enough. Individual action alone cannot stop, reduce, or ameliorate the effects of climate change. Because the biggest polluters, the biggest consumers, the most egregious offenders, are the corporations that profit from carbon emissions and the governments that enable this behaviour. And I’m very happy that The World According to Anna goes there, that Gaarder actually makes this case, rather than simply charging his readers to be more eco-conscious or environmentally responsible on their own recognizance. We need to shift the paradigm from “save the whales” to “burn down this capitalist system and build a more compassionate one in its place” (less catchy, I know, but I bet we can fit it on a T-shirt if we write it in Comic Sans!).

There is one more quotation I need to draw your attention to, because when I read it, I literally said, “Whoa.” It crystallizes Gaarder’s thesis, and indeed, is probably the most direct address from the author to the audience:

We’re young. We have to testify that the climate crisis is not a conflict between nations. There’s only one atmosphere and no national borders are visible from space. This is a conflict between generations, and the victims are young people today.

Let’s unpack this, because there is a lot gong on in these four sentences, and I love all of it. First, I love the phrase “climate crisis”. Can we use that instead of the weak-sauce–sounding “climate change” from now on? Because we are in crisis. Second, although the whole “no national borders are visible from space” chestnut is about as old as the Apollo program, it is still true and obviously needs repeating, since many people still don’t seem to get it (what is the point of America being “great again”, lol, if the rest of the world is on fire?). Third, the idea that this is a conflict between one generation and the next might seem obvious once you hear it articulated in that way, but it is still a potent statement. And that’s why I disagree with people who might pan this book for lacking direct conflict: the whole point here is that the conflict is between Anna’s generation and Nova’s rather than with anyone in Anna’s life directly.

I really like the way Gaarder frames this. So many stories about climate change frame it as human-vs-nature conflict: we have to survive these extreme weather events; we have to rebuild after some kind of climate-related disaster. That might make for an entertaining blockbuster movie, but it disguises the fact that climate crisis is not human-vs-nature. The Earth is not and has never been “in conflict” with us as a species; it is simply doing what it does best: adjust until it returns to equilibrium. We have upset that equilibrium, and while it is unfortunately too late to return to how things were, we could at least reduce how far the pendulum needs to swing. If we don’t, we suffer and the next generation suffers even more.

Gaarder doesn’t ignore the fact that climate crisis has negative consequences today, either, as demonstrated by the subplot involving Ester Antonsen’s kidnapping. I recently finished In Search of a Better World, last year’s Massey Lectures, which is all about how we need to do better at acting on our convictions about human rights the world over. So maybe this is just more on my mind lately, but it occurs to me that climate crisis is a human rights issue. So many people are affected by the loss of habitat and environment—and more broadly, the next generations have a right to inherit a planet that is as diverse and beautiful as it is now, not less.

Sophie’s World is one of my favourite books of all time. This is not Sophie’s World and nowhere near to it—and actually, that’s fine. I’d be concerned if Gaarder could churn out a bunch of novels as compelling and sublime as that (although Eco managed it, I suppose). Not every novel needs to be Sophie’s World to be moving or important, and although The World According to Anna might be too didactic and bare-bones for some people’s tastes, for me it definitely stirred up and provoked a lot of thoughts and feelings. And that is really all I can ask a good book to do.

I’d like to crack a joke like, “I love this title because it’s basically my life” except that would be a lie, because I’m actually killing it at adultI’d like to crack a joke like, “I love this title because it’s basically my life” except that would be a lie, because I’m actually killing it at adulting this year … not that I want to be. Sometimes just have to. Still, Bad at Adulting, Good at Feminism really does have an excellent title. Prudence Geerts has produced a cornucopia of tiny comics that illustrate, reflect upon, and poke fun at her own experiences, the way she sees the world, and the way the world might see her. As the title implies, she is, of course, discussing that millennial experience of growing up as the web came of age, of transitioning into adulthood in the age of social media, and, in her case, of being a woman all at the same time. There is a lot in here that I think would resonate with many readers, particularly people in that millennial bracket—but these experiences are by no means unique to that generation.

Geerts’ cartoon style is interesting. Her comics usually feature a version of herself, with occasional guest characters (mostly her cat). They present a story in a minimum of words and an economy of visuals. The most predominant comic form is that of a side-by-side of two situations, either two of Geerts, or Geerts and someone else (often a hyper-idealized stereotypical woman), to depict the “expectation” versus the “reality” of a situation. These ones in particular are always clever, and even when they don’t apply to me, I can still sympathize with and understand the point Geerts makes with each one.

Small content note/trigger warning for aromisic language: the section titled “Love Letters” begins with the phrase, “We all fall in love at least once in our lives…”, and the section is quite obviously about the ups and downs of romantic love. These kinds of blanket statements are dehumanizing for aromantic people; not everyone falls “in love” in the sense almost always meant by that phrase. One could simply change it to, “Many of us fall in love at least once in our lives…” and suddenly it isn’t a universal that excludes/erases aro people.

There may be other problematic aspects to these comics, but most of them are about experiences quite different from my own, so it isn’t really my lane to comment on that. I have some thoughts about the “feminism” portion of the adulting/feminist content … suffice it to say, I just think that I’m in a somewhat different place right now in terms of the type of feminist reading I’m looking for. But I really don’t want to invalidate the work that Geerts has put into these comics, because they do embody feminist ideas and messages, and for some people they might land.

Also, this is not the type of book I really enjoy reading. Novels are, of course, my primary jam. When I read comics, I tend to gravitate towards graphic novels. Collections of comics don’t do as well with me. If I had read some of Geerts’ comics individually somewhere, I would definitely be entertained, just as I am with xkcd, or The Oatmeal, etc., even though I’m not a huge fan of collection books in general. My friend Rebecca, who lent me this book, absolutely loved it. And I can see why she did! There are delightful things about it. She also pointed out to me that it wasn’t really meant to be read cover-from-cover, as I did, but rather dipped into and sipped at, and that’s a valid point.

And this raises an interesting philosophical issue of literary criticism. When a reader doesn’t consume a book in the way it was intended to be consumed, is that on them? If I attend an arthouse drama and then complain there weren’t enough explosions, aren’t I being a dick for not tempering my expectations to the form? So can I really even properly rate a book if I think I haven’t experienced it in a way that does it justice? Aren’t I being a grumpy curmudgeon?

I mean, you can see that I’ve obviously rated this book. But this is all just a long-winded disclaimer to remind you I’m just here to record my thoughts, and this review is probably not the one you want to be reading if you’re trying to decide whether or not to read this book. Unless you are me, in which case … you’ve already read this book, Ben. Get with the program.

Anyway, I liked many of these comics individually. I like the idea behind the collection, even if the execution isn’t everything I wanted. I definitely think that a lot of people could pick up this collection and enjoy it—for me, personally, Bad at Adulting, Good at Feminism has its moments but overall didn’t leave me wanting more.

I picked this up from my library on a whim because it was on a display and I liked the description of the premise. I know nothing about Pretty LittleI picked this up from my library on a whim because it was on a display and I liked the description of the premise. I know nothing about Pretty Little Liars or Sara Shepard. The Amateurs has a great premise! Unfortunately, the writing, characterization, and even the plot fail to live up to the expectations I had.

Seneca Frazier has spent most of her first year of college on a message board called Case Not Closed. She and fellow amateurs ruminate upon and theorize about cold cases, of which her mother’s murder is one. Seneca takes a train to Dexby, Connecticut for spring break, where she meets IRL with another member of the board, Madison (Maddox) Wright, and together they plan to tackle the cold case of Helena Kelly. They are joined by Aerin, Helena’s younger sister; Maddy’s stepsister, Madison (it’s contrived); and a fellow Case Not Closed member, Brett. So we have a little Scooby gang of amateurs, I guess. And weird stuff keeps happening to try to discourage them from pursuing the case, but of course they have the pluck and determination to see it through.

Almost from the very beginning, the way that Shepard’s characters interact chafed. Seneca’s disappointment when she discovers Maddox isn’t what she was expecting is understandable, but Shepard seems determined to create misunderstanding after misunderstanding between them, all for the purpose of driving them closer for the inevitable romance. (Insert eye-rolling here.) Same with the way the whole gang kind of disintegrates around Seneca when she throws a little fit just before the climax. These interactions don’t flow that naturally from the characters’ personalities (because we never really dig that deep into them). Rather, they exist on the page because Shepard wants them there. This is particularly evident in some of the secondary interactions, such as Maddox and his coach/love interest Catherine: suddenly, for no reason other than the plot, Madison warns Maddox she is “psycho” and then Catherine is psycho, and that’s her defining trait for the rest of the book.

The mystery portion is so-so at best. Honestly, I kind of liked the twist at the end, but I wish it weren’t at the end—I wish it were a core plot point at the climax, and that Shepard wrapped up the entire storyline in this one book. (Maybe that’s just selfish of me, because I’m not going to read the sequel.) Everything I’ve read in this book suggests to me that Shepard is very skilled at creating these elaborate and twisted scenarios, but her writing leaves much to be desired, from my point of view.

For example—and this is a large part of why the mystery-solving fell flat for me—the way Shepard writes technology does not work for me at all. We’ll give the whole “message board” thing a pass in 2016; they aren’t as popular these days but even I still use a few. But it’s like every time Shepard mentions some element of technology, it’s a little … off. “Gchat”? Oddly specific. The way she describes someone taking out an iPhone and “tapping at the screen”, such a specific, physical description of an interaction that is extremely normal and well-known these days … it’s as if Shepard is writing for someone who has never used a touchscreen phone before. Similarly, the whole idea that the police wouldn’t have turned on Helena’s phone while investigating her disappearance, leaving 5 whole years to pass before these amateurs turn it on and receive a crucial, long-delayed voice mail? Ugh. I know the police aren’t always competent, but Helena was 17. She had a cell phone. That’s going to be the first thing they look for, and if they don’t find the actual device, they’re going to contact the carrier and look at their records. Honestly.

This book just falls flat for me in pretty much every way. It’s not that it’s all that bad or objectionable. It’s just flat, boring, dull, etc. You might love it, of course, and that’s on you—er, I mean, totally your valid opinion. But The Amateurs reads about as amateurish as its characters, which surprises me considering this author’s claims to fame … but oh well. There are many more mysteries out there to read.

Nine years ago I listened to Jude the Obscure as a free LibriVox audiobook (I love LibriVox!), mostly while cycling to and from my summer job at an arNine years ago I listened to Jude the Obscure as a free LibriVox audiobook (I love LibriVox!), mostly while cycling to and from my summer job at an art gallery. This was not my first Hardy (I had read The Mayor of Casterbridge for my first year of university), but obviously as his last novel, Jude the Obscure has a special place in Hardy’s canon.

I quite like my original review, if I do say so myself, so this is just a short update based on what I thought this time around. Obviously I’m in a different place in my life right now, and so slightly different things resonated for me.

This past year saw me move into my own house, and while I’m not married (and that is not on the horizon for me), I’ve definitely been adulting more and forming some of the first adult friendships of my life. So I paid a lot of attention to the way Jude conducts his relationships with Arabella and Sue, and in particular, to the way Sue vacillates in her desires for a relationship—and the nature of that relationship—with Jude. It’s fascinating because there isn’t that much of a rivalry between the two women. Certainly they are wary of one another, and neither is really all that happy to have the other in Jude’s life. Yet theirs isn’t so much a competition for Jude’s affection as it is an alternating of roles. Whichever one isn’t living with Jude as his wife is automatically more attractive and desirable, because, of course, the grass is always greener.

So much of this is wrapped up in respectability politics. Sue begs Phillotson to let her leave him, despite the hit he will take professionally for allowing that to happen. Sue and Jude essentially fake getting married because they can’t stand the thought of actually marrying, yet they crave the respectability that the appearance of legitimate marriage might bring to them in these rural towns they inhabit. It doesn’t work, of course, because Hardy’s whole point is that once a group of people have taken against you and picked you as their morality whipping couple, they aren’t going to let up because you pretended to get married.

Jude’s presence in the liminal space between tradesperson and scholar also jumped out at me more. Specifically, I see now how his failure to obtain the education and position he originally desired isn’t just a disappointment to himself: he is literally trapped between two worlds. He definitely isn’t a scholar; there is no way he can hold any respectable scholarly position with what little he has studied so far. Yet his fellow tradespeople look down on him, mock him, or pity him, for aspiring to more than his class would let him be. It isn’t just the scholars and academics policing Jude: even the people of the same class resent him for trying to make “better” of himself.

I don’t know if I picked the worst or the best time to read this book … my dad has had some serious health issues this summer, prompting far too many hospital visits, and I read a good chunk of this while sitting in the ER with him very late one night/early one morning. Yet as depressing and bleak as this is (the whole fate of the children still freaks me out, although it wasn’t as bad this time around now that I wasn’t listening to someone else describe it to me), there’s something really … nice … about reading this when I’m feeling drained or down.

For one thing, Hardy can write. His descriptions, of settings and of characters, are just so lush and detailed. This is what I love about the late Victorian novelists. Yes, sometimes they can be too verbose … but Hardy, I think, largely avoids that issue. He wraps himself in words just enough to immerse the reader in his Wessex, and it’s beautiful. Jude the Obscure is not a happy or uplifting book by any means, yet it is still a beautiful book to read. Hardy’s love of words, as evidenced in the poetry he would later go on to publish after leaving off novel-writing, shines through, particularly here.

I also think the distance of the setting (more so in terms of time than place) is very comforting. It’s difficult for me to read about sad things happening in contemporary fiction, because that feels too real. But sad things happening to someone in the late 1800s? The culture and society are so different that it’s basically like science fiction (which I also enjoy reading when I’m down): I have to figure out the rules based on what exposition the author gives me, and I can feel sorry for how the characters are constrained by their society without feeling constrained myself.

That being said, I’ll close with this thought of how we haven’t changed that much from Hardy’s time. While leaving one’s spouse for a lover has become slightly more commonplace and perhaps acceptable (depending on your circles), in general, our society is still quite repressive and conservative when it comes to codifying relationships. We still emphasize marriage as a much bigger deal than it should be—that is, I understand that some couples want to get married, for various reasons, and celebrate their love, and they should be allowed to—but by the same token, people who don’t want to get married deserve the same respect and status—and people who elect to be single, likewise. While we have left Hardy’s time behind, we are still hung up on a lot of the same issues.

And that’s why, some hundred odd years on, Thomas Hardy’s writing reaches out across time and space and still touches me.

While I was not a fan of the last collection of Massey Lectures that I read, the brilliant thing about this series is that every year is very differenWhile I was not a fan of the last collection of Massey Lectures that I read, the brilliant thing about this series is that every year is very different. Each year brings a new speaker, a new topic, and an entirely new way of approaching the topic and the format. (I am very excited for this year’s lectures delivered by Tanya Talaga, author of Seven Fallen Feathers). Last year’s lectures by Payam Akhavan work really well as a collection. His writing clear, conscientious, and moving. In Search of A Better World: A Human Rights Odyssey is extremely on point for the world we currently inhabit.

This was probably not the best book to read the week I chose to read it. I’ve been in a little bit of a slump lately, both in reading and in general. At one point while reading this book, a friend messaged me to ask how I was doing, and I had to say, “Um … not well … probably because I’m reading about the Rwandan genocide again.” (I keep reading about the Rwandan genocide, and every time I do, it destroys my heart. More on this later.) Akhavan does not mince words, and he doesn’t sugarcoat the enormity of the crimes against humanity that he recounts, both historical and present-day. This is a book about humans committing atrocities against other humans, about the toll of hatred and bigotry, about the insufficiency of political will to do good. It is provocative and heart-wrenching. And it probably won’t change a damn thing, but I have to give Akhavan kudos for trying.

The first chapter is the most personal one, as Akhavan traces the history of oppression of Bahá’ís in Iran and how his family fled to Canada to avoid persecution. From there, he discusses the establishment of the International Criminal Court as an offshoot of the Nuremberg Trials, which then leads into various genocides, particularly Rwanda’s, and the failure of UN peacekeeping efforts. Much of what Akhavan describes reminds me of what people like General Dallaire and Samantha Powers have said and written about the subject: the people who have been to these places, who have seen this happen, recognize the human suffering; yet the politicians in charge worry more about votes and political will.

And even now, in 2018, Canada continued to ship arms to Saudi Arabia for its war against Yemen.

This is what Akhavan is getting at in In Search of a Better World. His final chapter heats up and becomes the most polemical—up until this point, he stays comfortably in the pre-2001 world of the distance past, and most of his comments are fairly uncontroversial. After he describes his personal connection to the terrorist attacks of September 11, and the way this lead to a paradigm shift in the world, he advances extremely anti-imperialist criticisms of Western (and particularly US) foreign policy. He points out that countries like Afghanistan, Rwanda, Congo, etc., are fucked up precisely because of colonialism and imperialism, and that this is an ongoing phenomenon. He even mentions the ways in which the intergenerational trauma of residential schools is an inexcusable blight on Canada’s human rights record back home.

This last chapter is perhaps the most important—as much as the other chapters are variously enlightening and depressing, this is the one that reminds us that these problems exist now. Just as climate change isn’t some doomsday event that will happen in our future, human rights abuses are not these sad stories from the past. Both phenomena exist, and both are largely the result of more than just individual actors—that is to say, while we can obviously do our part as individuals to help resolve both issues, what we really need is large-scale—like, global—political will. That is very difficult. Akhavan believes it is possible, however.

I’m not sure this book is going to persuade anyone who isn’t already concerned about human rights abuses the world over. That is to say, as the Onion article goes, I’m not sure how to convince you to care about other people. But if you’re already on that same page, this book is going to give you more to think about. Akhavan asks you to really consider what a commitment to defending human rights looks like, not just personally, but at a societal level: how do we need to change the ways in which we operate, the politics of our time, to avoid tragedies happening because it was more economically or politically expedient to do nothing? These are tough questions, made all the more intense by the fact that Akhavan is definitely not an armchair philosopher in this, given his relevant and practical credentials as a human rights lawyer.

In Search of a Better World is a high-level book but it doesn’t demand a high-level understanding of history or politics. It is heartfelt and genuine, yet it is also backed with extensive knowledge, experience, and a recognition that passion alone cannot make change. This is not a “bleeding heart” book, yet it is extremely empathetic and compassionate. I leave it with the sense that Akhavan, for all he has thought and said and done so far, desperately wishes he could do and had done so much more.

An interesting departure from Miles’ arc in the Vorkosigan universe, Ethan of Athos takes us to the outskirts of Lois McMaster Bujold’s fantastic futuAn interesting departure from Miles’ arc in the Vorkosigan universe, Ethan of Athos takes us to the outskirts of Lois McMaster Bujold’s fantastic future vision of a far-flung, loosely-connected group of human societies in space. The eponymous protagonist comes from a planet colonist by an extreme religious group comprising only men; they reproduce through artificial wombs, and Ethan is one of their reproduction specialists. With this set-up, Bujold not only reverses the “planet of a single gender” trope, she also gets to examine attitudes and ideas that are almost definitely not her own in a compassionate way.

Ethan of Athos starts, and nominally ends, on Athos, but the main action takes place on a space station. Ethan must get to the bottom of a missing shipment of new cell lines for Athos’ reproductive centres. Without them, it will become increasingly difficult to create new (male) children. But Ethan has never been off-planet. Thanks to the censorship regime on Athos, he hasn’t even seen a woman before, let alone met one. Now suddenly he is being pursued by Cetagandan special ops folks, and it seems like his only ally is a female mercenary (and agent of one Miles Naismith, eh).

Many science fiction stories that posit a single-gender planet focus on the idea that women might somehow “get rid of” men. In this book, Bujold does the opposite. She creates a society entirely devoid of women; indeed, owing to the planet’s religious views, any depictions of women from offworld are censored. The only interaction Athos has with the rest of human society comes in the form of an annual census ship that brings the occasional (male) immigrants and any deliveries Athos purchased the previous year. On Athos, men work to earn points towards being able to conceive a child at a reproduction centre. If they have a relationship with another man, that person might be the “designated alternate” parent of the child, but these arrangements tend to be flexible. Bujold hasn’t just imagined a world without women; she has constructed this entire alternative society, and it’s really interesting how she portrays Ethan in this fish-out-of-water experience as he leaves Athos behind on his adventure. He begins with a bit of a country bumpkin feel to him, yet as the story levels out, he acquires more savvy and guile.

I didn’t expect to like this as much as I did! I wasn’t at all hooked by the premise. But once the action starts up, and we start exploring the station and dodging Cetagandan shenanigans, it’s very entertaining. As usual, Bujold melds the realism of life in space—resource management is key on a space station, beyond even security—with the fantasy of this imperialist, political thriller backdrop of galactic society: noble houses and assassins-for-hire and genetic mutants. There is a much bigger story happening here, yet Bujold carefully folds it all into Ethan’s personal priority of protecting Athos’ interests. While this naturally circumscribes the extent to which we learn about the Cetagandans’ nefarious plots, it also keeps the overall story quite tightly focused. Absent an entire Vorkosigan saga cinematic universe (which I would welcome wholeheartedly, let me tell you), this book could easily be adapted into a standalone science fiction thriller: it has all the right set-pieces, and honestly, would have been right at home with the slightly hokey yet oh-so-ambitious late 1980s, early 1990s flicks like Total Recall.

If you look specifically for Miles Vorkosigan’s signature wit or Vorkosigan-adjacent shenanigans, this book might disappoint you. If you cast aside those expectations and enter consider this just another excellent science fiction story from a master storyteller in the genre, then Ethan of Athos is enjoyable and well worth your time.

#50: The Ultimate is, quite simply, vicious. In its final arc the Animorphs series discards any pretense that thiLast Cassie book is best Cassie book.

#50: The Ultimate is, quite simply, vicious. In its final arc the Animorphs series discards any pretense that this is anything less than a series about children being at war. Cassie, Jake, and the other Animorphs are the de facto leaders of a resistance comprising some free Hork Bajir, pacifistic Chee, and their parents (and maybe a peaceful group of Yeerks, but we haven’t heard from them lately). With their real identities now known to Visser One, the Animorphs are in hiding and feeling the heat. So they decide the only way to buy themselves, and therefore humanity, more time is to expand their ranks….

Cassie is the ideal narrator for the moral qualms in this book. Are the Animorphs doing the right thing by sharing morphing ability? Are they doing the right thing by putting targets on more childrens’ backs? In the end, they decide to side-step these ethical quandaries by simply saying: we don’t have time to debate this. It’s do or die. Thus Applegate and her ghostwriter demonstrate the brutal calculus that is war.

My friend Julie says it best when she says that “cracks are also starting to show” in the Animorphs’ unity. One of this series’ strengths has always been the diversity of its cast, and I don’t mean that in terms of their ethnicities. Each Animorph has always had distinctive personality traits that inform their decisions, and each of them has grown in different ways over the series. Cassie, while always kind and compassionate, has nevertheless seen her nascent adolescent sense of right and wrong tempered by the morally grey world we inhabit. The Ultimate proves this, well, ultimately: she prevents Jake from killing Tom, allowing the latter to escape with the morphing cube. Rather than sacrificing the few for the many, Cassie privileges her friend’s soul (as she might put it) at the expense of sacrificing a huge tactical asset. Jake resents Cassie, both for making this choice for everyone, and also perhaps for assuming the role of moral compass when he might prefer that she abdicate it and let them sink deeper into oblivion.

For, you see, Jake has decided that he’s not going to come back from this. It’s there in his interactions with Cassie. And who can blame him? His parents have been taken hostage. His brother has long been a hostage, and he was resigned to the fact he would have to kill Tom. And now the generalship of this entire war has been foisted upon him. It’s a heavy burden. And so Jake has decided he will take up that mantle, and he will do whatever needs to be done, but he’s not interested in thinking about a future beyond this war.

This is the ultimate tragedy happening to the Animorphs. It isn’t the potential loss of life, the disruption of their families’ lives, etc. It’s the simple fact that they have reached an event horizon of sorts. Once they cross this horizon, they won’t be able to see a way back. How can they possibly win against the Yeerks? They can only keep resisting, and resisting—what a dreary, dangerous prospect. The Ultimate is brutal not because of its battle scenes, or the Animorphs’ interactions with their new recruits, or Tom and Jake’s conversations: it’s brutal because there is no shred of hope here. There is no suggestion of light at the end of the tunnel. As far as the events in this book suggest, the Animorphs aren’t even beginning to think about taking the war to the Visser and kicking Yeerk butt once and for all. They’re fighting defense, and they’re losing.

And they know it.

Next time, the Animorphs have to foil another Yeerk plot, but it might cost them their secrecy. But is that even a bad thing?

I learned about Hope Never Dies from Twitter, and am I ever glad I did. I don’t read a lot of spoofs and parodies, but when I do, I like to read onesI learned about Hope Never Dies from Twitter, and am I ever glad I did. I don’t read a lot of spoofs and parodies, but when I do, I like to read ones like Andrew Shaffer’s. It is delightful.

Joe Biden has been out of office for a while now, and while his former friend Barack is living the high celeb life, old Joe is … well, feeling his age. His life gets shaken up when, one day, an Amtrak conductor Joe knew from his days of riding those rails turns up dead under mysterious circumstances. Barack warns Joe that this conductor might have been targeting Joe for some reason … and slowly, the two of them, plus Barack’s Secret Service bodyguard, are drawn into a criminal conspiracy that stretches as far as the suburbs of Wilmington, Delaware. Along the way, there are car chases, gun fights, and serious bro discussions about friendship.

Buckle up.

Look, Real Talk™ for a moment. Barack Obama was an historic president for his race and other reasons, yes, and like every single President of the United States, he is also hugely problematic. Being a Black Democratic President did not make him immune from controversial decisions, strategies, and executive orders. Remember how Gitmo was going to be closed? How about those drone strikes? So, in endorsing and enjoying this book, I’m not here to lionize Obama’s legacy or endorse the idea that another old white guy should have been the Democratic nominee instead of Hillary Clinton. Hope Never Dies works precisely because it is a parody piece. It imagines a dafter, lighter universe in which Barack and Biden are buddy-buddies, able to engage in this kind of odd-couple road mystery comedy shenanigans.

And, really really, I just really needed this at this moment in history, and I am certain I’m not alone. Full disclosure: I’m not American, I’m Canadian (and white, and a man), so I’m very insulated from a lot of the bizarro universe stuff that’s happening south of my border. To be fair, though, my province (Ontario) just elected Donald Trump Lite (Doug Ford) and his Progressive Conservative government has, in a few weeks, already begun to run rough-shod over anything remotely socialist or progressive within our province.

I’ve really avoided watching darker TV shows lately. I have so many Black Mirror episodes to watch, but I just can’t. I can’t handle that darkness. The best I can do is Good Girls, which is so brilliant; mostly I’ve just watched reruns of Brooklyn Nine-Nine and other extremely humorous, light-hearted shows. I need that in my life.

I need to know that hope never dies.

Shaffer nails Biden’s characterization, or at least, as someone who knows literally nothing about Joe Biden beyond the fact that he was the Vice President of the United States, I think Shaffer nails it. He has clearly done his research. Biden’s voice sounds exactly like one might imagine from an older Democratic politician from Delaware. His similes and metaphors are on point, as is the way he interprets and navigates the world around him. In other words, Shaffer didn’t just take a generic “amateur sleuth” character template and paste Joe Biden’s name and profile features onto it: he took the time to really make this main character feel like a credible simulacrum of the public persona of Joe Biden.

Similarly, I really enjoyed the way Shaffer portrays Obama. Remember that this is all through Faux-Biden’s first-person perspective, and as such is unreliable. Barack comes off as a bit of a know-it-all! He constantly corrects, interjects, and explains at length when no one asked a question. He’s the guy who knows something about everything, and he can’t help but tell you about it.

Honestly, the mystery was the least attractive element. The climax sort of sneaks up on you, and the villain is a bit of a stretch. It makes sense, and I guess in some ways it’s a trope of the genre, but it’s one of those things that I either missed the signposts for, or else the turn-off was buried between two legitimate exits and I never had a chance. But I didn’t come here for the mystery. I came for Barack and Joe’s bromance, and this book delivers.

Hope Never Dies is far from the best spoof I’ve read, but it is good enough. And for its purpose, that is enough. If, like me, you briefly want to live in a universe where Barack Obama and Joe Biden drive a suped-up Escalade and then talk about their feelings, then you should read this book.

Honestly didn’t have much interest in reading anything else by Dan Wells—not that I consider him a poor writer, but his particular fare holds little iHonestly didn’t have much interest in reading anything else by Dan Wells—not that I consider him a poor writer, but his particular fare holds little interest for me in general. However, the premise of this book is good enough that I decided, since it was on offer as part of a 3 for $10 sale, I’d give it a try. It pretty much met my expectations: Extreme Makeover is a competent, slightly bizarro SF thriller that never really transcends its tropes. Nevertheless, credit to Wells for occasionally attempting to plumb the depths of the human condition, even if he usually bobs right back up to the surface.

Lyle Fontanelle is the chief chemist at NewYew, a cosmetics pharmaceutical company. His latest creation, a burn treatment, turns out to be an anti-aging goldmine. Except that it also transforms people into genetic (and therefore physical) clones of the DNA of the person imprinted on a batch of the lotion. When the supply of this product, ReBirth, makes its way into mainstream society, the world soon begins to crumble. It might be all Lyle’s fault, or the fault of the greedy corporate executives at NewYew, or the fault of lax governmental regulations, or … you know what, maybe humans are just terrible?

First off, I don’t know about the edition you read, but my edition has one of the worst covers I’ve ever seen. Specifically, the front cover is fine. The back cover’s contrast is so awful that I could barely make out the cover copy. Really bad design decision there, and while it has no bearing on the quality of the story within, it almost made me pass up reading this one (3 for $10…).

Each chapter starts with a countdown advising us of the number of days until the world ends. At first I liked the countdown. Then I didn’t like it. Now I just don’t know. It was kind of the reverse of page numbers, I guess? I started getting antsy as we neared the end, because it didn’t actually seem like the end of the world was imminent.

Extreme Makeover suffers from being too tightly constrained to the perspectives of a small number of characters. We seldom get a chance to experience what is happening in the world beyond Lyle’s or Susan’s or a handful of other characters’ experiences. Everything we learn about how other people use ReBirth is related to us secondhand. For a novel that has truly global stakes, that makes it difficult, at least in my opinion, to really understand the stakes.

And Lyle is just … not an interesting person to me. I’ll give Wells some credit for trying to make him a dynamic character. He does get better over the year as he realizes how short-sighted he has been. But the whole “mediocre white man dreams of success while chasing his lab assistant” is an icky origin story for any protagonist. Maybe this is all intentional, all part of the horror of everyone turning into Lyles … but it’s just a little bit sad too.

Beyond its summer blockbuster thriller-esque premise, Extreme Makeover has very little going for it. There are moments when it seems like Wells is about to go some place deeper, whether it’s the fruitless quibbling between UN representatives, or the concentration camp commentary with the Lyles. Yet the novel never really seems willing to go that far, instead shrinking back into its comfortable cocoon of horror-thriller clichés, including the ragtag survivors holing up on an island, so to speak. Throw in the truly bizarre jump-cut ending, and … well … no satisfaction here.

I kind of expected this going in. It was a pleasant enough way to pass the time; if you like SF thrillers more than me then you might like this a lot more. I figured the worst that might happen is I shrug, and I am, but that’s about it.

What do you do when your friend Amanda gives you a $10 gift card for Chapters as part of a “pick me up” gift while she’s away?

You unwittingly go to ChWhat do you do when your friend Amanda gives you a $10 gift card for Chapters as part of a “pick me up” gift while she’s away?

You unwittingly go to Chapters the same week they have select books on 3 for $10 and you are WINNING AT LIFE, my friends. Radio Girls is the first of the three books I bought (with my iRewards discount, even after tax, the total came to just under $10—winning, I say!). Sarah-Jane Stratford’s fictional account of the real Hilda Matheson’s tenure at the fledgling BBC (told through the eyes of fictional Maisie Musgrave) impressed me and exceeded my expectations. The book caught my eye because I love interwar historical fiction; there is something so intriguing about the 1920s and that odd mixture of optimism in the shadow of fascism’s rise … plus, I have very little knowledge about the rise of radio. Stratford satisfies both of these desires, in spades, and on top of that delivers kickass feminist protagonists who don’t need no man.

The year is 1926. Maisie Musgrave is an American-raised Canadian who, estranged from her actor mother, has moved back to her father’s native Britain to pursue … well … anything; she feels British at heart. Maisie manages to get a secretarial position at the upstart British Broadcasting Company (soon to be renamed Corporation), where she is shared between the Director-General and the Director of Talks (lectures), who happens to be … yes … shocking … a woman, and a rather unconventional one at that. Thanks to Hilda Matheson’s influence (along with some other cracking young women, like fellow secretary Phyllida), Maisie’s ambitions and understanding soon burgeon beyond secretarial work. In addition to having to endure, and then push back, against the rampant sexism and classism within the BBC and British society in general, Maisie stumbles upon a fascist conspiracy to take over Britain’s leading newspapers and the BBC itself. Oh, and meanwhile, there are two romantic subplots, one of which is over very quickly (though it comes back towards the end) and the other of which forms the backbone of the espionage plot.

So, yeah … this is a historical spy thriller about women spies who produce radio too. And if it sounds from my plot summary like there’s a lot going on here, that’s because there is. Radio Girls impresses me not necessarily for the content itself but for the sheer skill with which Stratford manages to fit all these plot and story elements into 350ish pages. Plenty of books try to do romance and espionage and social justice, etc., but Stratford nails the perfect balance of all these things. The book clips along at an exciting pace, the years going by even as we get hit with great scene after great scene that develop the characters and drive the plot forward. Literally, never a dull moment.

Maisie Musgrave is an excellent protagonist. I like how she doesn’t start the book as a dyed-in-the-wool feminist. She’s certainly liberal and sympathetic to movements like women’s suffrage, but she has spent much of her adult life intentionally trying to distance herself from her mother’s bohemian actress ways. As a result, Maisie isn’t conservative by any means, but she is certainly eager to adhere to social conventions if only to fit in at her new job. It’s the influence of Hilda and Phyllida, along with Maisie’s open mind, and her experiences with the men in her life, that help her develop a better appreciation for being a radical.

Along the same lines, Stratford has quite a diverse cast of people in terms of their personalities and gender politics (I think the cast is predominantly abled and white, alas). Along with radical queer firebrands like Hilda, Vita Sackville-West, etc. (real characters) there are more conservative women—like Miss Shields—and men of varying sensibilities, from the stuffy Reith to the naive Cyril and the double-edged Simon. And many of these secondary characters change over the years covered in this book—albeit, not for the better!

Maybe it seems, at first blush, like a stretch that a secretary who rises in the ranks at the BBC might stumble on a fascist conspiracy and help take it down. Yet it’s incredibly entertaining … and while Stratford has certainly taken liberties with the historical record, she hews closely to the truth in some places. And while Maisie herself is as fictional as the plot she foils, similarly far-fetched plots really existed in Britain and other places (truth is stranger and all that jazz). So it isn’t that much of a stretch at all. Meanwhile, Stratford rightfully highlights the important work that many women did in the early days of radio and the BBC.

I’d pair Radio Girls with these two other titles about kickass women in history: Hidden Figures (if you want actual non-fiction) and Code Name Verity (if you want something YA). Shout-out too to the documentary Mercury 13!

The stories in here aren’t particularly bad. They just don’t appeal to me. For one thing, as I mention at the top of this review, his characters are often these sad-sack men who are stuck in dead-end jobs (or lives) and chasing some kind of love interest. It’s … emotionally flaccid. Moreover, as much as I like meta-fiction and self-insert stuff, it shows up again and again here, and I’m just kind of over it now. Sure, some of the stories and narrative devices here are fun and fresh the way Yu uses them … but there is not a single story in this collection that made me go, “Whoa.”

Probably the only story that comes close is “Hero Absorbs Major Damage”. I like the conceits there, the way Yu uses the trope of self-aware game characters. It’s pretty fun (though it still hews too closely to some of the issues I identified above). Even that story, though, didn’t make me go “whoa”.

So overall … disappointed, for suresies. This is not a book I can recommend. It’s not something I’m telling you to avoid either, of course. But there’s just better ways for me to spend my afternoon than reading short story collections that don’t speak to me.

Yes, Caitlin Moran has written a sequel to the sublime How to Build a Girl. I never expected this, never aThis is not a drill.

I repeat: NOT A DRILL.

Yes, Caitlin Moran has written a sequel to the sublime How to Build a Girl. I never expected this, never asked for this … and I definitely don’t deserve it, but young women do. This sequel is arguably better, brighter, more brilliant than the first book. I devoured it in a day, and I already want to go back and re-read it, underline it, find quotations, make my friends read it to hear their opinions. This is a book I want to share and evangelize and enjoy again and again, but it is uncompromising and unflinching in its feminism … yet it also contains so much joy.

Spoilers for the first book! Content warnings for this book: lots and lots of drug use, explicit sex (if you are sex-repulsed you are not going to like this), sexual harassment/misconduct, discussions of eating disorders/purging/fatphobia.

How to Be Famous picks up where the first book leaves off: 19-year-old Johanna Morrigan, writing under the pen name Dolly Wilde, reviews music shows and lives in London. She is, in her own words, a raunchy “Lady Sex Adventurer”—but really, of course, she is still young and learning her way through the sometimes terrifying and disappointingly misogynistic world of the London music scene. Johanna refuses to sleep with a comedian, then gives him a second chance—but when she snubs him yet again, he takes revenge. Soon Johanna finds herself in a situation too many prominent women face: being publicly shamed for her sexual behaviour (which is really no one else’s business).

Once again, I’m struck by how much I like Johanna as a character. She is a raw and honest narrator, telling the story with some distance from her younger self but still exposing us to her younger self’s earnestness. Once more she lives this split life: on one hand, she is Dolly Wilde, fearless music journalist and Lady Sex Adventurer; on the other hand, she is still Johanna Morrigan, nineteen-year-old girl trying to figure out what the hell this life is all about. This is particularly noticeable when she talks, at length, about her feelings for John Kite. As much as Johanna evinces this confident, sexually liberated exterior, deep down she is still inexperienced, still trying to figure out who she wants to be—and there’s nothing wrong with that.

Indeed, one of the most poignant moments in the book for me comes when Johanna finds herself in the position to take a friend’s virginity, to teach him and show him the ropes, and she discovers how enticing a prospect this is for her. Suddenly, the sex act is not about showing how good she is at pleasing a man; it’s this collaborative experience. Johanna is basically a microcosm for portraying the epochal shift that feminism underwent over the decades, from perceiving “liberation” as “we can or should have as much sex as we want, when we want” to “we can have as much sex when we want, with whom we want, entirely on our terms”. Moran recapitulates this much more resoundingly later in the book. In between then, of course, we have the juxtaposition of Johanna’s unsatisfactory experiences with Jerry Sharp.

Although set in the mid-nineties, this book will obviously resonate with the current #MeToo and #TimesUp movements. Johanna discovers firsthand the inequity of being a woman who has casual sex. In addition to the professional fallout from refusing Tony (in the first book), there’s the way Jerry Sharp essentially goes out of his way to target her—something that sounds all too credible to me, unfortunately, just from what I read, and will no doubt feel even more familiar to some women readers. Moran masterfully manages the emotional upheaval that Johanna endures, the ups and downs culminating in a fantastic nadir, a flight, and then of course the redemptive realization that she would rather fight (but how?).

This is where How to Be Famous departs from some of the more gritty takes on rape culture that I’ve read over the years: it has a happy ending, and Johanna gets some measure of closure or retaliation. Despite dealing with a very serious subject, it nevertheless remains hopeful and buoyant and defiant in that way. And I want to be clear: I’m not saying that’s better than books that adhere to a less optimistic storyline. The whole point is that we deserve all sorts of narratives about this topic. We need narratives that portray the brutal, uncaring realities about rape culture. We also deserve narratives about how it is possible to fight and to win against men who abuse their privilege. Just as How to Build a Girl made me excited for teenage girls to read it because it talks so honestly about some of the feelings they might wrestle with, I’m excited that How to Be Famous exists for young women. It shows them that you can be strong and still be scared, and upset, and at a loss at times. You can fight back and still be terrified and unsure of yourself. Media often simplify narratives, raising up some people as paragons and casting down others as unworthy—and it is never that simple. It is always more complicated. Moran captures that in Johanna’s behaviour here.

This book feels a lot more focused, in terms of plot, than the first one, which is another reason I find it even better. That being said, don’t mistake this book for solely a novel about sexual misconduct. There’s so much more happening in here, so many fascinating feminist subplots. Let’s just briefly list them: Johanna and her dad, the way she’s acting as this proxy mother figure (and at odds with her own mother); the hilarious conversations between Johanna and her brother Krissi, which always warmed my heart; the ruminations, once again, on the effects of poverty on one’s psychology and actions—see the scene with Johanna and her brother Lupin; Suzanne and the record deal and the way Suzanne has a lot of ideas but is scared to commit them to a recording; and, of course, the quixotic love story between Johanna and John Kite. There is just so much happening in this book it actually beggars belief. I definitely need to re-read it at some point because there are so many rich little nuances I probably missed as I tore through it this once.

If you want something that is honest and uncompromising in its portrayal of women’s sexuality, yet also fun and optimistic and hopefully empowering (not really my lane here), How to Be Famous might be that. You don’t have to read the first book, but I would highly recommend it. This is not just a worthy sequel: it’s an exquisite pleasure, a story I never thought I’d get—and honestly one that I wasn’t really clamouring for, yet now I’m so happy to have it. Again, this book isn’t really for me per se … I’m so excited to share it with my female friends, to see what they recognize of their own experiences in this, to have fascinating conversations with them. But it definitely helped me, helped expand my empathy and my understanding, which is why I would recommend it to a general audience. Moran’s writing is humorous and humane, and I always want more of that in my life.

After finishing Lost in Math, I decided it was time to dive into a pop physics book I’ve had sitting on my shelf for a while now. It’s pure coincideAfter finishing Lost in Math, I decided it was time to dive into a pop physics book I’ve had sitting on my shelf for a while now. It’s pure coincidence that The Universe in the Rearview Mirror also happens to be about the predominance of symmetry in theoretical physics. In Dave Goldberg’s case, however, he isn’t arguing about the philosophy behind this approach. He’s totally on board, and he’s here to explain to laypeople what these symmetries are, how (we think) they work, and why they might provide clues about where to look next.

This is #notyourtypicalphysicsbook in that it avoids a lot of the standard approaches to taking the reader on an historical tour that develops physics, starting somewhere in the 19th century with Maxwell, on through the early 20th with Rutherford and Planck, and then through relativity and quantum mechanics courtesy Einstein and Schrödinger. That’s awesome, because I’m getting a little tired of that. Instead, Goldberg provides historical context but organizes the book around specific symmetries either observed or postulated. Within each chapter he develops the theoretical concepts required for each symmetry. I like this approach.

Goldberg’s writing is comfortable and intelligible. I fondly remember his “Ask a Physicist” column on io9. Goldberg isn’t just a good scientist (actually, I have neither the qualifications nor the data to judge whether or not he’s a good scientist—maybe he sucks as a scientist!), he knows how to write and communicate scientific concepts in a way that doesn’t bend your brain (too much). He includes little nods to more complicated concepts and ideas, so that those of us more familiar with these topics get some extra information, but he does it in a way that keeps the main part of his explanations accessible for all. Moreover, he frequently makes nerdy or geeky pop culture and science fiction references.

Plus, we get a whole chapter on Emmy Noether. She’s my girl. By which I mean, she’s a kickass mathematician who also happened to be a woman, which means she was never given the credit or recognition she deserved. Goldberg explains how Noether’s eponymous theorems, while obscure outside of physics, are the bedrock for a lot of discussions of symmetry within physics. Any book that champions Noether is a book I’m on board with.

Goldberg might not be as fed up as Sabine Hossenfelder when it comes to physicists’ obsession with symmetry elegance, or beauty in physical theories, but he evinces a healthy amount of skepticism when it comes to some of the concepts he discusses. He mentions when certain theories, like multiverses, are considered controversial within the community. He admits that he is a big fan of supersymmetry but that the most recent LHC data at the time of writing his book (since then the LHC has continued to let down the supersymmetry proponents). And although I wouldn’t go so far as to claim he proves why symmetries and elegance are useful for theorizing in physics, I think this book is probably a good case (for a layperson) for that camp.

Occasionally, Goldberg’s enthusiasm for an idea or an explanation runs away from him, and I found myself backtracking, trying to figure out if I had missed something that would make it all make sense. Similarly, while there are a great many illustrations and diagrams, some of which are helpful, many of them are just … there. With no caption, no reference within the text. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

The Universe in the Rearview Mirror manages to come across as a refreshing and unique explication of parts of theoretical physics without resorting to extremely controversial ideas. As someone who reads (and enjoys reading) a lot of pop physics books, this one felt new to me. As someone who enjoys math, but who also enjoys evangelizing about “the bigger picture”, Goldberg’s linking of these larger symmetries to the math and the theories the math codifies is really attractive. This book doesn’t just hit you over the head with relativity and wave-functions and uncertainty and say, “Trust us, lots of math, don’t worry about it.” I won’t pretend that you’ll understand everything Goldberg says (I certainly don’t), but you will come away from this book with a better grasp, somewhere, of how and why physicists proposed certain ideas.

In what might be one of the most efficient stories in the series, The Diversion delivers an emotionally intense blow to the Animorphs as Applegate hamIn what might be one of the most efficient stories in the series, The Diversion delivers an emotionally intense blow to the Animorphs as Applegate hammers home to her readers that nothing will ever be the same.

In Tobias’ last solo turn as narrator, we learn that the Yeerks have finally clued into the possibility that these Andalite bandits are actually humans. So they’ve begun a massive project of sifting through DNA samples, trying to find matches that include bits of animal DNA as well. When the Animorphs raid the lab where they believe this is happening, they discover that they might be too late: the Yeerks have already started finding matches. So now it’s a race against the clock to save their families—but if they do that, then it means coming clean about what they have done these past years, and it means everyone, not just Marco, will have to accept a life on the run.

In some ways, this is a book that could only have been told from Tobias’ perspective.

Firstly, it needs to be from Tobias’ perspective in order to include his parent, his mother, Loren, whom we learned about (and actually met) back in The Andalite Chronicles but whose status has been unknown for a long time. Now Tobias has found her, and he makes the bold move of contacting her in order to save her from the Yeerks. This is a monumental moment for Tobias, because up until now, his only human companions have been the other Animorphs. The book opens with a touching scene between Tobias and Rachel after Tobias loses a hunt to a rattlesnake interloper: Rachel brings him a burger, which he appreciates despite the ding to his dignity it entails. Applegate and ghostwriter Lisa Harkrader simultaneously show us Rachel and Tobias’ budding relationship while reminding us of how much Tobias has adapted to life as a red-tailed hawk. But with his mother back in the picture, Tobias suddenly has this other connection—and more to lose.

Secondly, Tobias’ estrangement from both his birth family as well as the family members who “cared” for him while he was a human boy makes his perspective quite unique. This would be such a different book if it were from Jake’s perspective. We get enough, through the dialogue, to learn how torn up Jake feels about what he perceives as bad calls on his part: rushing in to the lab, and it’s a disaster; moving to move their parents too slowly, and it’s a disaster. Tobias finally realizes that Jake isn’t any stronger or better at this than the rest of them. Jake, too, is just a scared boy struggling to keep it together. Tobias has always been an interesting element of the Animorph dynamic for this reason: as an outsider even when he was human, his grasp of the others’ characters hasn’t always been accurate. And he has still kind of been the outsider Animorph, the nothlit, and it’s really fascinating to see how that colours and informs his reactions to the others.

The Diversion also highlights something that, in my opinion, Applegate often underplayed up until this point: how fucking terrifying Visser One can be when he wants. Hear me out. Up until now, Visser One has often come across as a comical kind of antagonist. He reminds me a little of Skeletor. Now and again, we’d get a glimpse of the evil within, the genius mastermind who is ready to take on Earth and then take the Earth. For the most part, though, in his direct encounters with the Animorphs, there has always been this element of bumbling villain that lets them defeat him.

But here, in this book, we finally understand how screwed the Animorphs would have been earlier in the series had Visser One discovered their identities. The moment he figures out they might be human, he turns all these resources onto a clever project to unmask them—and he basically succeeds. The Animorphs have been lucky up to this point.

Running through the entire story, of course, is the constant reminder that we’re coming up on the final battle. I think even the Animorphs themselves recognize it now. Visser One’s promotion means he has the authority to prosecute an open invasion. The gloves are coming off. The Animorphs are being backed into a corner. Even the little things, like giving Loren morphing ability, show us how all the rules that previously held in this series are starting to fall away.

This is a fantastic book, not just for what it is by itself, but for the role it plays within the series. It isn’t filler (which is the worst); it simultaneously manages to set up and hint at the bigger events to come while still delivering a great story on its own merit.

Next time, the Animorphs have to make more hard choices about how they can continue to protect this planet.

In The Apocalypse Codex, Bob Howard is back … and has to go to training courses because he is being groomed for middle management. Fortunately for our reader’s brains, we don’t have to sit through 300 pages of Bob networking with other British civil servants. Rather, Bob soon gets tapped by another Laundry higher-up to manage some “external assets”—a witch and her mercenary sidekick. They need to investigate an evangelical church that is a little too cult-like to be true—might the pastor actually be trying to summon a chthonic entity when he really means to resurrect Jesus? Of course he might. This is the Laundry Files.

TL;DR if you’ve read this series before and want to know how this one stacks up: it’s good. It’s really good. More mythology, new characters (Persephone and Johnny are cool; Lockhart is OK), new perspectives even, and an intense thriller plot. All the stuff you’ve come to expect, in spades.

This is also probably a great entry point into the series if you haven’t been following along and don’t feel like going back and reading the first three books. Bob brings you up to speed pretty quickly, and while there are obviously references (and spoilers for) earlier novels, this adventure really has Bob off on something quite new, and the ending sets him up for a kind of lateral move within the Laundry hierarchy that promises more interesting adventures going forward. As usual, Stross isn’t afraid to shake things up and move the overall arc of the series forward.

Getting into this particular book now: the first third kind of drags. It isn’t just the exposition to induct us into the world … it takes a while for Bob to get out into the field and do his thing and then for the shit to hit the fan. This is also the first time, if I recall correctly, that Bob narrates stuff in third person that he didn’t experience. That isn’t a big deal, but it is an interesting change. For the most part, I enjoyed Persephone and Johnny. They were competent ciphers of characters without being annoyingly smarmy or smug about it.

Surprisingly, my favourite aspect of the book was the antagonist. Without going deeply into spoilers, let’s just say that I really like the way Stross portrays Schiller’s faith. I think there are lots of interesting shades between con artists and true believers, and Stross sort of hits on the right balance to give us an antagonist who is clearly deluded and deceived yet strangely honest too.

I can’t help but notice some parallels between Bob and Schiller as well. Oh, not in the sense that I think Bob is going to start a cult aimed at waking the Sleeper in the Pyramid … but The Apocalypse Codex is ultimately about loyalty to those in your care. Schiller has a duty of care to his congregation, one that he egregiously violates in the name of his faith. Bob has a duty of care to his external assets—or at least feels like he does—and Stross uses multiple opportunities to hammer home his point that Bob’s loyalty is itself more of an asset than a liability.

I feel like, as Stross ramps us up towards CASE NIGHTMARE GREEN (when/if ever that arrives), he is having us think more critically about the structure of the Laundry. We learn more about its American counterpart, the so-called Black Chamber, here as well, and how it seems to be run by or at least associated with more supernatural creatures than the Laundry. Stross is laying a lot of groundwork that I have faith will pay off in later books.

Really, of course, if you’re coming to this book you’re probably coming for Stross’ effortless exposition and clever allusions. No one would accuse Stross of giving up an opportunity to infodump, and The Apocalypse Codex is not exception. It’s smart, and it knows it’s smart, in that annoying kind of way—but it’s also punchy, and a little bit sweet (especially the bits between Bob and Moe), so in my opinion, Stross can get away with it.

I enjoyed Storm Glass more than I thought I would when I first started. For whatever reason, I’m not aboard the young adult fantasy train right now, wI enjoyed Storm Glass more than I thought I would when I first started. For whatever reason, I’m not aboard the young adult fantasy train right now, which is a shame, because there’s plenty of young adult fantasy I want to read, but I’m hesitant to go into it until I’m in the right mood! Still, I received this from NetGalley in exchange for a review, so a reading and a review it will get!

Imagine, if you will, a Regency England in which the rich live in floating manors and the poor live in the Fells, down below on the ground. Oh, and there are airships (obviously there are airships). This is the world Jeff Wheeler has us visit in Storm Glass. If you’re rich enough, you learn one of the four schools of Mysteries—Wind, War, Law, or Thought—which are kind of an arcane cross of magic and actual science. If you’re not rich, well, typically your parents are going to sell your deed (read: indentured servitude) and you’re not going to have any control over your destiny. So, you know, typical world with a fantasy twist.

Cettie has only ever known life in the Fells. Cettie can see ghosts. One day, her life changes forever: Vice Admiral Brant Fitzroy agrees to try to adopt her. From then on, Cettie will live in his floating manor of Fog Willows and want for noth—wait, sorry, no, that’s not right. Cettie tries to settle into Fog Willows, but there is an antagonist (the evil Mrs. Pullman), not to mention the whole of society frowning at Fitzroy’s scandalous eccentricity. Meanwhile, the other half of the narrative follows Sera Fitzempress, a second precocious 12-year-old, one who stands to inherit the empire if her father doesn’t get his way and who has a penchant for beneficence that will probably get her in trouble.

At the centre of this story, I suppose, is the premise that life is horribly unfair, and that once you realize this, you can do one of two things: you can lean into it, embrace the unfairness, and do your best to “get yours”; or, you can work to try to level the playing field, even if that makes things harder for you along the way. People who take the former tack are not necessarily “evil” but might be misguided; likewise, those who try for the latter aren’t inherently “good” but may have good intentions. Both Cettie and Sera must learn to navigate this unfair world and start making choices for themselves in terms of how they want to interact with it.

I think that’s where Storm Glass piqued my interest: agency. Cettie and Sera both have it, though Sera’s is severely curtailed in how she can exercise it. In both cases, however, the two protagonists are their own people. Plenty of characters tell Cettie what she should do, how she should think or behave—but she always resolves to do what she believes is right. I like that, even when it means she makes a mistake.

That’s where Storm Glass doesn’t quite come through for me, though: mistakes. Or maybe more accurately, just “the stakes”. Now, Wheeler threatens us with pretty high stakes, to be sure, for both girls. I love Mrs. Pullman as an antagonist: she is so delightfully convinced of her own rectitude that it doesn’t even cross her mind that what she is doing is wrong. I’m less enamoured with Sera’s father—he seems too one-dimensionally cruel. Both threaten their respective charges with harsh consequences. But just when the going gets tough, the climax of the book hits, and everything seems to wrap up too soon. I guess I was hoping for a bit more struggle, a bit more hardship, a need to be more clever.

Another dimension that didn’t bother me too much but might bother some people is the vagueness of the magic system here. The Mysteries refer both to knowledge that one learns in school as well as aptitude for various forms of magic. It’s largely based on force of will, it seems—Cettie is able to exercise some elements of it, despite having never been initiated into the Mysteries—but there isn’t much time spent on developing how this works any further. I actually like that Wheeler doesn’t bog down the book with a lot of exposition; we get precious little explanation of the political system, or the way the Mysteries work in conjunction with the rest of society—you have to do a lot of filling in between the lines. And I’m fine with that. Still, this attitude applied to the magic system means that we’re basically in a situation where magic can do whatever the plot needs (and maybe that’s why I’m dissatisfied with how the story resolves).

Overall, this is what I’d deem a competent fantasy novel. It ticks a lot of the right boxes. I enjoyed it, enjoyed the energy, liked the climax, stayed interested. It hasn’t stuck with me. I’m not sure I’d read a sequel. Your mileage, as always, will vary.

In Lost in Math: How Beauty Leads Physics Astray, Sabine Hossenfelder argues that these twoIs truth beauty and beauty, truth? It can be hard to tell.

In Lost in Math: How Beauty Leads Physics Astray, Sabine Hossenfelder argues that these two concepts are not equivalent. As the subtitle implies, Hossenfelder feels that theoretical physicists are too obsessed with creating “beautiful” theories, in the sense that the mathematics that underpins the theories (because these days, theories are basically math, even though, as Hossenfelder stresses, physics isn’t math) must be beautiful and use “natural” numbers (by which she means numbers close to 1). Theories that don’t conform to these criteria tend to be unpopular, to receive less funding for experiments and less attention in papers. This, Hossenfelder contends, is a mistake. She fears it reinforces an orthodoxy that threatens theoretical physics with stagnation and, worse, undermines the scientific method. In her view, since theoretical physics is often regarded as the “hardest” of hard sciences, if faith in the foundations of physics goes, so too goes trust in science—right when we need it more than ever.

I guess this book kind of hits the sweet spot for me, because I’m big into the intersections of philosophy and mathematics and science. Thanks to NetGalley and Basic Books for the free eARC!

I love thinking about the limits not just of what we know but also what is knowable. This, to me, is why theoretical physics fascinates me—not just because it explains the foundations of our physical existence, but because it knocks up against literally the limits of our ability to measure and quantify. Each time we want to go looking for heavier and heavier particles, for example, we need bigger and bigger particle accelerators. That’s why we built the LHC, which—in Hossenfelder’s opinion—has been a bit of a bust in terms of new physics. But we’re running up against the limits of what we can do on Earth, or even in orbit … what’s next? Particle accelerators the size of our solar system? I get chills.

Lost in Math is not really about physics in the popular science sense. This is more accurately a philosophy book. Hossenfelder discusses a lot of physics concepts (most of which, to be honest, go way over my head), but ultimately she is more interested in looking at why her colleagues in theoretical physics chase the theories that they do. Unlike some of them, she confesses that she doesn’t seem to have a nose for beauty, that she doesn’t recognize a beautiful theory when she sees it—and she is uneasy about this reliance on ideas of beauty.

So while the book follows the fairly standard approach in popular science texts of doing a brief overview of the history of physics, Hossenfelder is looking at the philosophies that were at work rather than the merits of the actual theories. As familiar names—Bohr and Einstein and Schrodinger and Heisenberg and Dirac et al—move across the page, we learn more about their thinking—insofar as we can know it—than their specific contributions. Hossenfelder isn’t looking to teach physics here. She’s asking us to think critically about why we have the physics we do.

I think this is a really interesting and important point. To laypeople, like myself, it might seem inevitable that we’ve ended up here. After all, there is only one true science, right? We might have made a bunch of false starts, but along the way, as we uncover more and more “facts” and tinker with our theories and run better experiments, we’re narrowing it down and getting closer to “the truth”, right?

Well … it’s complicated. As Hossenfelder explains, it isn’t so much that the physics we have now is The One True Physics as it is Something That Mostly Works. And in the case of quantum physics, there are actually a whole bunch of competing interpretations that explain the same phenomena, just differently, and at the moment they all tend to be valid because no one has figured out a way to test between them. So as much as both philosophers and physicists would like the other camp to stay out of their business, when you get right down to it, the two are entwined at the moment.

Hossenfelder tours the landscape of theoretical physics, interviewing researchers in different fields to help her understand the obsession with naturalness and beauty. Along the way, you will pick up on her clear sense of exasperation with what’s happening in her profession. It isn’t just the naturalness argument: it’s the whole system, the fighting over short-term grants and positions, the tendency to reward people who publish more often, on more accepted topics, over people who spend their time tinkering with more heterodox approaches. And maybe how surprised I am by Hossenfelder’s tone and voice, or even the fact that this book got written, further supports this idea, since we are so used to “gee whiz” pop physics books that emphasize the beauty of the universe and of the theories that explain it. Physicists who write books for popular consumption are generally trying to build a following, and I get the impression Hossenfelder really doesn’t care about that. While I find Hossenfelder’s writing, in general, to be mediocre, her forthright and honest tone is refreshing and interesting.

There’s a fair bit of mathematical concepts in this book too. That probably shouldn’t be surprising, given its title. There aren’t actual equations, but Hossenfelder throws around terms like “groups” fairly generously without really going into what they are (and maybe that’s for the best). As with the physics shop talk, if you don’t have much of a grounding in abstract algebra, you’re going to feel a little out of the loop. This is not a light read. It is, however, enjoyable in the sense that it tickles the part of your brain that really wants to think hard about things.

Lost in Math succeeds, largely, in what it sets out to do. It demonstrates that certain elements of how theoretical physicists theorize right now aren’t the most conducive or productive. It pulls back the curtain for a wider audience, exposing us to some of the philosophical debates and issues that have long been happening within the physics community, which laypeople might wrongly perceive as monolithic in approach, if not in interpretations. Hossenfelder’s writing is a little dry, and the book is full of challenging concepts … but I think it’s worth a try if you want some philosophy in with your science.